My inflatable bath lift is broken again. It’s not even a year since the Polterloo incident when it started inflating itself in the middle of the night.

This time the issue’s more mundane, it’s just not inflating when I turn it on. Without it, getting in and out of the bath is very tricky indeed.

My morning routine goes like this: get out of bed and with my morning carer, get my clothes together, have a wee, get myself onto the bath lift, and then call through for my carer to come and help me wash.

Without the lift I need to have much more help to get in and out of the bath. Or at least I ought to have more help. But this morning, still half asleep, I forgot the lift wasn’t working, failed to notice it wasn’t where it should be, and just went on with my usual routine in autopilot.

That was until I got a sudden bump back to reality as my body crashed into the cold enamel of the bath. My carer, Catherina, alerted by the clanging bath and my squeals of surprise, arrived moments later – telling me off for attempting the manoeuvre alone.

I have no idea how I failed to miss the lack of the lift. I can only guess that I must’ve seen an inflatable mirage.