The crumpled paper and tinsel meant the end of a triumphant Christmas in which I’d had several earth shattering steps forwards in my battle with OCD. I have managed to go on holiday with people I barely know and share cutlery and plates with them despite the absence of a Proton Particle Purifier (aka “dishwasher”) to kill the imaginary terminal illnesses they might pass on to me. I’ve been to the doctor 15 times since I’ve been back but have been assured, after a battery of tests, that my broken toenail will re-grow. He did diagnose me with Hypochondria Type B, which I fully suspect is a terminal disease.
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