APPENDIX DIARY written in 1974.

On the 8th April, 1974, late in the night, probably after midnight, I arrived in Hackney Hospital. First of all, I remember finding myself lying on the steps of the Mother and Baby Hospital, Lower Clapton Road, but previously I must have been unconscious.

When I picked myself up, I believed myself to be in need of medical attention. I was clothed in a summer dress, and was entirely without underclothes, even knickers, but had a coat over my dress, and was wearing shoes.

When I left the house, admittedly, I was clothed like this, except that I think I had some knickers on, but while out, believe that I was attacked by some unknown man. The evidence for this was that afterwards, I found bruises on my body, was rather dirty, my nose bled profusely on and off for some days, I had intermittent pains in various parts of my body, and my dress was torn at the neck.

When I picked myself up, I believe that I asked my way to the police station, and eventually found myself in a building with three coloured nurses, and a couple of policemen.

Probably what I said to them was incoherent and sounded nonsensical, but if indeed I had been attacked, this was understandable. I kept insisting that I needed treatment for physical exhaustion if for nothing else; at least that was what I was trying to convey to them.

The nurses kept laughing, or so it appeared to me, and I told a man, not in uniform, who was also present, that they were not doing their job properly. I repeatedly left the building and re-entered, repeating the words I was told to say in order to gain admittance.

These were silly statements. I think that first of all, I was told that Harold Wilson, P.M. was being telephoned, but I did not believe this. The second time I entered the building, I was told to ask for Herman Goering. Although I knew this to be nonsense, I obeyed, because I thought I would not get attention unless I did so.

When I got back, I was still unsatisfied and went outside again, and this time was told to ask for Dr. Goebbels if I wished to re-enter. I was at the end of my tether, therefore I asked for Dr. Goebbels, was re-admitted to the building, and this time decided to stay, whatever happened, as I was tired of all the ridiculous talk which was taking place.

Then I asked for Dominic, because I believed I might get some decent treatment from him. His name is actually Dr. Dominic Costa. I had been acquainted with him outside the hospital; had met him twice at Mayola Road. There was a lady doctor present, with long fair hair, and she became suspicious when I asked for Dominic.

"Ah, I see, it is Dominic you are after, is it?" she said. "We will see about that." Probably these were not the exact words, but she said something like that.

I think that shortly afterwards, Dr. Dominic Costa indeed arrived, and told me he was a male nurse. I was lying on a couch at that time.

This threw me into a panic, because I thought that Dominic had got into trouble with the hospital authorities, and they had probably demoted him from doctor to male nurse. At the same time, I was rather nervous of all men at this particular instant, and as soon as I saw Dominic I shouted, "Please, no sex." This was not because I thought that I had any attraction for him, and he had none for me, but simply because at the time I did not wish to see any man, unless it was someone I knew well. Unfortunately, Dr. Dominic Costa retreated. It would have been better if I had allowed him to take me to the ward, which I think, was what he intended to do.

I was left with the lady doctor. I did not like her, but in some strange way, thought it was better if I could get attention from her. She examined the backs of my eyes by shining a light into them, to which I did not object, as I thought it was part of a physical examination, but she did nothing else.

Unfortunately, I said something else to the staff, which probably caused them to question my identity. I said that first of all, at the house, there was Joan Martin, then there was June Graham, and then, once again, there was Joan Martin. I should never have mentioned that name June Graham, but it slipped out. Afterwards, whenever they asked who I was, I always maintained that I was Joan Martin, and that previously I had been in Rubery Hill Hospital, Birmingham and Goodmayes Hospital, Ilford, and not in any other hospital whose names were sometimes mentioned. (1996 comment- The last sentence is perfectly true). For instance, they asked me about the Maudsley, and I mentioned that I had never been there, which is absolutely true.

Eventually, the lady passed me over to a man, who took me by the arm and walked with me through very grim surroundings, which reminded me of a prison. I still thought and hoped that I was being taken to the general part of Hackney Hospital, and not the psychiatric part; was marched up to the floor just below the top one, and was put into a bed.

I think that morning came quickly, and someone on the staff remarked to me, "Well, here you are with all your mad friends!" and I realised that I was in the psychiatric wing of the hospital.

So I said then, "Well, I will sing you a hymn of glory", and I did so. Normally I cannot sing, unless others are also doing so, and I can get some sort of guidance from them, and if the tune is extremely familiar. But on this occasion, I sang alone, and my own voice sounded beautiful to me, though I do not know what impression it made on the others.

I think I had visitors on Monday evening, April 9th. It was Andrew, and also his parents. It was nice to see Andrew, and it seemed to comfort me, but I could not say much, though during the day, I had done much talking. Then I spoke to Andrew's mother, and asked, "What do you think?" and she answered, "I don't know."

Then I felt so tired, so that I could not utter a word to Andrew's father, who was also there.

It was the evening then, and rather late, and I was suddenly informed that I was being transferred to another ward, the top floor, which was the correct ward for the Hackney, E.5. district.

During the previous day, I remember taking a book called the "Daily Mirror Crossword Puzzle Book" from a bookshelf. It was obviously intended for general use by the patients, and on this first day in hospital, I was actually able to do a couple of the puzzles, making about half a dozen mistakes in each. This was in the fourth floor ward. On that first day, I insisted that I should be given no drugs, as when previously ill, I had found that after being given major system tranquillisers, I had remained ill for two years. By being "ill", I mean that I was unable to take any decisions for myself, a most unhappy state; therefore, I did all that I could to ensure that it did not happen again. Luckily, I heard afterwards that Dr. Costa had advised the other doctors that no drugs should be given, and also that friends from the MPU had phoned the hospital and insisted on this.

Minor tranquillisers were also refused by me, because although when previously taking them, I could not say that I had suffered any positive ill effects, I had found them entirely ineffective in what they are supposed to do--- that is, to make one feel more relaxed.

On the second day in hospital, in the "correct ward", conditions seemed worse. Dr. Costa was not attached to this ward; and I would have been happier if I had been left in the other ward to which he was attached, as I knew he did not believe in drugs.

On Tuesday morning, April 9th, I was summoned to see Dr. Renton (although at this time he did not tell me his name) in a private room. He asked me lots of questions, and seemed to be trying to psychoanalyse me; to discover the inner workings of my mind.

He seemed to keep on saying, "What is worrying you? You can tell me if you try," to which I replied, "I cannot." He seemed to be trying to question me about religion, and this made me very angry. At length, I turned round and said, "Well, then, I am going to ask you a few questions. The first one is, 'Are you atheist, agnostic, or do you believe in God?'"

To this he replied, "I am not going to tell you."

Therefore I said, "Then, why should I tell you anything about myself?"

And he said, "Oh, that is called transference."

By transference, I believe I have read somewhere, that the feelings the analyst has towards his subject are transferred, so that the subject has identical feelings towards the analyst. In this case, it was anger. I cannot say that all these questions did me any good.

As soon as he had mentioned transference, I said, "Well, I do feel physically ill, so perhaps you can give me a physical examination."

He did this, and while certain tests were carried out, I felt perfectly relaxed, and had no objections. He sounded my chest, patted my stomach, scratched my feet, and knocked my knees to test my reflexes. Though he said nothing, I felt that all the tests pointed to satisfactory health, except when my knees were knocked. One leg gave a minute response; in the other, there was nothing.

During this examination, the doctor put his hand out and grabbed my throat.

I said, "Please don't do that, doctor."

He said, "Oh, I was feeling your throat for bruises. Anyway, if I had done anything, you could have screamed out, as there are people outside."

So I said, "Actually, when you were doing that, I was thinking about the man."

He said, "What man?"

I said, "The man who attacked me."

Then he said, "Wasn't it someone inside your house?"

"No," I said. "Definitely, it was not there. It was someone outside in the street."

He left me alone then, except for one further test. He asked me, firstly, to try to push him away from me, and I pushed hard and was able to do it. Then he asked me to pull him towards me, and I could do this. Somehow this part of the examination reassured me; because for most of the time, I thought I was entirely without physical strength, but this test seemed to prove that I still had it.

Finally, he asked me to close my eyes. Then, he pressed one of my eyes open with his fingers.

"Can't you prevent me from opening your eyes?" he said.

"Of course, I cannot," I answered.

"Doesn't it frighten you that you cannot?" he asked, to which I replied,

"Of course, it does not, for that is impossible for anyone to do."

At last the examination was over, but the psychological part had frightened me far more than the physical part. That I do know for sure, though I cannot remember half as many details about the psychological part as about the physical part. As I was completely without underclothes, during the physical examination I had to wear an unbelted hospital dressing-gown which did not adequately cover me, and therefore made me feel embarrassed. On the other hand, perhaps it is fortunate that I cannot remember too much, for it is not pleasant to remember frightening events.

The rest of the day, Tuesday, was spent in trying to relax, but this seemed impossible. I was relieved that I was given no tablets that day, but at some time requested Mogadon sleeping tablets at night, and was given these.

Washing myself was a problem, as it was for most of the other patients. In the "ladies", none of the wash-basins had plugs. In the bathroom, there was only one plug which fitted the bath, but not the wash-basin in the bathroom. However, with this particular plug, it was possible to retain water in any of the other wash-basins, if one was sufficiently careful.

Though I possessed no soap, there was always one bar of this lying about in one of the sinks, and on most days I was able to have a sketchy wash, and on two occasions during my ten days in hospital was able to have a bath. It was difficult to take baths, owing to the fact that the bath was in constant demand. In the mornings it was the custom for the nurses to take elderly women for baths. Therefore afternoons were the most satisfactory times.

Most of my money was taken from me on the second night, by nurses who inspected my handbag, but I was left with about a pound, and one Giro cheque for £7.35 which was overlooked. It was an urgent matter for me to buy certain necessities. Most of the day I sat around in my summer dress, with a dressing-gown over it, and to most of the other patients, this appeared odd. Indeed it was odd, but the dressing-gown was necessary in order to keep warm, as I possessed neither underclothes nor a cardigan, and I thought that wearing a dressing-gown would attract less attention from staff than if I wore my coat.

Soon I thought, "Well, I must be able to get out and buy something," so I am afraid I purloined some tights, put them on, crept out to the hospital shop and bought two pairs for myself, of the type which were on sale there.

When I got back to the ward, I replaced the purloined tights in the bathroom and tried to put on my own. Imagine my dismay, when on examining them, I found they were non-elasticated and would not stay up. Luckily, I had purchased some soap, flannel and writing-paper and envelopes while in the shop, and this improved my situation slightly, but effectively, I was still confined to the ward.

Most of the day, it appeared that pop music from Radio One was blaring forth, and though I do not like many television programmes, Radio One seemed to me to be much worse. Of course, I do not think that this opinion was shared by younger people. I tried to turn it off once, and actually did so, but a nurse walked across and said, "Are you interfering with the radio?" and put it on again.

So I retreated to my bed, but often when I lay on top of my bed, a member of the staff would walk across and say, "You are here to learn how to mix with people."

So then I would sit at one of the tables. Often it was time to lay them, and if I tried to do it, was usually told, "Oh, you can't do it. You don't know how."

There were only two of the patients who were "allowed" or who appointed themselves to do this job. One was called Hilda, and I dubbed her the "Conservative", because she remarked one day to an elderly woman, "Do you remember the time of the great depression before the war? It seems rather like that now."

Hilda was about fifty, and would have remembered these times, as I myself, though a little younger, remembered the late nineteen-thirties.

When she said that, I remarked to her, "Yes, I remember those times. I think it was something to do with the Conservatives and the businessmen." She was extremely shocked, and I realised that I had said the wrong thing to her, for she said, "But I am Conservative. The Tories are better by far than anyone else. It is the other lot who give all the trouble."

She was the most co-operative patient on the ward, co-operative with the staff, that is, and was constantly remarking how fortunate she was, as she was shortly going to stay with her sister in Brighton. She did as much work in the ward as possible, laying the tables and washing up, and she served the tea; tried hard to prevent me or anyone else from doing anything; would never let me pour out tea for myself, but neither would she give me a cup of tea, even if I waited for everyone else to be served. I approached, she said, "Oh, there's none for you. You are greedy." However, invariably I had my tea, by taking it when her attention was diverted, or by going to the kitchen afterwards, and taking one which was left over. The ward-maid who served the meals was rather a rough type, but she gave me tea when she was there, often using a yellow staff cup for me, instead of the blue ones which were reserved for patients.

One day this ward-maid, who always wore a pink overall, said, "Do you know where the staff cups are kept?"

"I had no idea, but I said, "I know where they keep them. "They're in the grave-yard! Let's go and get them."

Accordingly, we both ran out of the ward together, to everyone's surprise, and she showed me the cupboard in which the staff cups were stored.

Hilda made friends with one of the patients. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged man called Frank, and I think he said he was a Conservative, though I am not sure. Apparently, he was allowed and encouraged by the staff, but most of all by Hilda, to do a lot of domestic work on the ward. Actually Frank was quite a decent chap, and he shared my interest in doing crosswords, but privately confessed that he was quite unable to do them on the ward. One day, while dusting the higher parts of the ward, he pretended to dust me down with the brush.

I had not been in the ward very long when Andrew visited me again, and he brought Pete Sneddon, who I also knew, with him. Andrew brought my glasses, which though cracked, were a help, and asked what I needed. I think I was able to talk a little on this occasion to Andrew and Pete, but was too tired to say much.

As soon as they were gone, Hilda remarked, "Your visitors are so badly dressed. I am lucky. I have got my brother-in-=law, and he is respectable."

So I said, "Oh, I am not interested in your brother-in-law." However, the other patients, both young and old, did not seem bothered about who visited me, or how they were dressed. Except for Frank. He said, "Oh, isn't that man a relation of yours. He has been in twice." To which I replied, "No, he's not a relation."

I don't think that anyone except Hilda and Frank were such nosy parkers about my affairs.

At length Austin visited me. He brought me some much needed items, underclothes, another dress, and a cardigan. I had been in Hackney Hospital for about four days, suffering, in my estimation, only from exhaustion. As soon as these clothes were available, I decided to visit the Post Office to draw out some money by using my Giro cheque; to purchase some wool, and some stamps so that letters could be posted. The wool was necessary to me, because I thought that if I could do some knitting, as reading and doing crosswords had become impossible, it could distract my attention from the blare of Radio One.

I walked out of the hospital without asking permission and tried to find a Post Office. I found one, but it was closed, and there was an advertisement for a new sub-postmaster in the window, which made me think that it was permanently closed. So I walked to the bus-stop, with the intention in my mind of catching the S2 bus to Lower Clapton Road and visiting the Post Office there, and possibly visiting Mayola Road to pick up some more items which I thought it was necessary to have.

But, I had not been waiting at the bus-stop long before the charge nurse appeared and asked what I was doing. I told him that I wished to get to the Post Office for stamps.

He said, "Oh, come back to the ward with me, and I will let you go out to the Post Office later. There is one situated a little way down the road." "Oh, well," I said, "I'll go there now, on my own, and I promise you that I'll come back to the ward when I've got what I need."

I did not know the name of this nurse, but he was Cypriot, so I will call him the Cypriot nurse.

The Cypriot nurse then said, "But your promises are easily broken. You have got to come back."

So I said, "Well, if you think that, then I think the same about you. Your promise that I can go out later if I come back now may also be broken. I am going to the Post Office now, but if you have the time, you may come with me."

He said, "All right, I'll do that." We reached the Post Office, and I asked a passer-by if it was still doing business. The passer-by said, "Yes, it opens at 2 p.m."

It was 1.15 p.m., so there was three-quarters of an hour to wait. The charge nurse wanted me to return with him, but I said, "No, I am waiting right here until it does open."

He realised that he had either to wait with me for 45 minutes or trust me to come back on my own. He decided to trust me and left me on my own. Eventually, I was able to get into the Post Office, draw seven pounds, and buy some stamps, but decided, for the time being to buy nothing else. The Cypriot nurse was quite relieved when I came back, and I think that I had gained his confidence, for he treated me much more agreeably in future. But soon, Dr. Renton gave me another grilling, and this upset me again, though I cannot remember what was said. But shortly afterwards, when tablets were being issued, I was called across and I saw one of the nurses reach for a bottle marked "Haloperidol". I was alarmed and dashed out of the ward, and the Cypriot nurse followed me. I told him that I had to telephone my friends urgently, and it had to be done outside the hospital. I picked up the phone and Austin answered, and I told him that the hospital authorities were trying to give me haloperidol. The Cypriot nurse was listening, but I am inclined to think that he was on my side.

Austin said something about telling Andy about it, so I said, "O.K., that's all right," and replaced the receiver, and returned to the hospital with the nurse. I knew that I was safe, in any event, for the rest of the afternoon, for the issue of tablets would have been completed.

When I returned to the hospital, I told the staff that I would not take haloperidol, and was told, "Oh, we were not actually going to give it to you."

If that were true, then the nurse would have picked up the bottle with the intention only of frightening me. Should nurses do that? However, after this, no further attempts were made to give me medication, and I was thankful, though often I was taunted by one of the staff members, perhaps unknowingly, with the remark, "Will you come for your medication?"

My invariable reply was, "I am not on medication. If you look at your records, you will see that I am not."

The Thursday before Good Friday came, and firstly there was beauty treatment. I had my hair set and it looked quite attractive, and I thanked the occupational therapist and told her that it had been done very well. Later in the afternoon, there was an Easter Party which lasted approximately one hour.

On that particular day, I also had to attend a session at which two doctors, social workers, nurses and occupational therapists were present.

When I arrived at the session, I remarked, "Where is Dr. Costa?"

The doctor who had previously seen me was there, and this frightened me.

An older man called Dr. Silverman said, "Dr, Costa is not here."

"Well," I said, "As the sole representative of the MPU, I suppose I have got to speak on my own."

"The MPU," they said, "Tell us about the MPU."

"The MPU is intended to keep people out of hospital," I said. "But who is this doctor," I continued, indicating Dr. Renton.

"My name is Dr. Renton. I told you that," he said. In fact, that is the first time I remember hearing his name.

"So," I said, "Now I know just where I stand with Dr. Renton. He is trying to psychoanalyse. But he can no more psychoanalyse me than I can psychoanalyse him. He is hopeless. Where is Dr. Costa?"

Dr. Silverman said, "Well, tell us about the MPU. And what do you know about drugs?"

"I know that drugs do me no good. And the MPU is not against doctors. In Goodmayes Hospital there was someone called Dr. Abrahamson. He must have been a good doctor for he stopped giving me drugs, and after two years chronic illness, I suddenly got better." ( I entered Goodmayes Hospital on November 1st 1971, having taken an overdose; my drugs were stopped and the first day on which I began to feel better was November 29th, 1971). I did not actually tell the Hackney doctors these details.

I have never been on section, but something struck me as rather odd. 28 days were needed for me to feel better, and to actually feel that I was able to leave hospital, though of course it was not possible for me to actually do so for a further five months, owing to the difficulties involved in obtaining accommodation. But it was 28 days that was required before I recovered, and 28 days is the normal time for patients who are actually put on a certain section. Certainly it was quite unnecessary to put me on section at that time, for it was quite impossible for me to do anything constructive, whether off section or on one. It seems to me that only patients who, though they sometimes behave oddly, are actually capable most of the time of behaving normally, who are put on section at all. (1996 comment- The above paragraph sounds rather far-fetched).

I said to the people at the conference, "Of course, I think it must have been those drugs which had been making me feel ill. For what else was I to think, when suddenly I became so much better when they were stopped." The conference seemed to accept the truth of this point. "But drugs do some people some good, don't they?" I was asked. I conceded this point, and told them that of course, I did not claim to be an expert where drugs were concerned. But inwardly I was thinking, "I am against them."

However, it must be admitted that I have met people happily taking drugs, seeming quite normal and must concede that I do not actually know if some psychotropic drugs do improve some people's ability to cope with life. In my own experience, I have found that minor tranquillisers such as librium have not apparently harmed me while I have been taking them, but on the other hand, I did not feel that they had done me any positive good. The only drugs which I have ever felt to be beneficial are certain anti- depressants, and even these only appear to have a short-term effect. I suppose, just like alcohol, they can give one a bit of a "lift", but usually the "lift" is only temporary. Personally , I prefer alcohol. Alcohol, however, is not considered as respectable as an anti-depressant, but for certain people it has the same effect. I admit it. Alcohol gives me a "lift", but does not do much harm in moderate amounts. Unlike some drugs, even drugs given by doctors, it does not send one on a "trip". I went on a "trip" once. This was caused by a few tablets of "Sparine". The grass seemed exceptionally green, the flowers so terribly bright, there was no need for me to do anything, because the world was wonderful, so I did not have to work. Luckily the Sparine was stopped. It was many years ago, long before I had any serious illness, and I can only recall it as an isolated incident. Personally, I think it is nice to have a "lift", but inadvisable to go on "trips".

But to return to my talk about the MPU to the doctors. I told them that one of my interests in the MPU was that it should act as an organisation to fight for better treatment for ex-patients, especially where employment was concerned. Then they asked me about Mayola Road.

"Oh, they are all stable people living there, but we have a crisis room where people stay temporarily while they are looking for permanent accommodation," I told them.

They were, of course, suspicious about the crisis room, and suggested to me that this type of activity on the part of the MPU should be suspended, and I said, "Yes, I suppose, it should be suspended."

Denis Roberts, the social worker asked me afterwards about the crisis room, and I admitted that the people who occupied it were usually rather disturbed.

"But we do not send people to hospital," I said, "because the MPU is a society intended to keep people out of hospital, so how can we send them there?"

Denis Roberts seemed quite nice, and he seemed to agree with me, but said that perhaps the MPU was taking rather too much on itself.

Afterwards, Denis produced a National Health Sickness Certificate, and got me to sign it; so this made me hopeful that I would get sickness benefit for the time during which I had ceased to sign on for work at the Ministry of Employment.

Denis Roberts said that he would like to visit Mayola Road, and I agreed that I would like him to come round and see me. I told him that we needed to get rid of the mice. I was afraid that he might call in and see the mice while I was in hospital, so I asked Austin on one occasion when he was visiting the hospital not to allow any social workers in, while I was away.

Austin was chatting away, and during the conversation, he said something to the effect that he had a criminal record, and I thought to myself, "What a silly thing to say, while you are standing in the hospital, for these doctors, who have just passed by, might have heard you say it."

Anyway, I said to Austin, "Oh, the magistrates (the doctors) and the prison warders (the nurses) have just passed by."

And Austin said, "Well, they are not called warders, these days. They are now prison officers."

"Perhaps you could get a job as one of them," I said to Austin.

"I don't think so, not with my record," he said, but I remembered that, a few weeks ago, he mentioned that he had applied for a job as a policeman, and had shown me some leaflets, giving details about the work. Of course, Austin cannot be taken seriously, at least, not all the time.

NEXT DAY

The conference which I had attended for a brief period on Thursday, which contained all the doctors was over, and it was Good Friday. Though on Thursday I had been moderately well, my hair had received attention and looked nice, on the very next day I felt really ill, my hair-set had completely fallen out, and other people thought that I looked ill. However, I went out of the ward at 2 pm, without asking permission and attended Good Friday service at the nearby Catholic Church and received the sacraments. During the service a nun remarked that perhaps I should go out to get some fresh air, as she thought that I looked ill. I did feel ill, but I wanted to stay, and indeed I did stay.

On my way home, I got near to the hospital and met a nurse standing at the bus-stop.

"What are you doing outside the grounds?" she said. "Go back for your medicine."

"Oh, I'm not going back for that," I said.

"Well, then, go back for tea."

It was 4.30 pm, and tea was not until 6 pm, but I said, "Well, yes, I will go back for tea. That sounds a good idea."

I entered the grounds, sat down on a seat for a little while, even though it was raining, but soon I had to go back to the ward, though I was feeling that sitting in the rain was preferable to sitting in the ward, if there had not been people around who noticed me.

There was tea, and I got through the rest of Good Friday.

(1996 comment - that is what I say when feeling depressed- I got through the day. It means that I sat waiting for time to pass, feeling miserable and able to do nothing about it).

Saturday morning came, and this time I asked permission to go out to visit the Post Office and to buy some knitting wool. A young, coloured nurse was there, and she told me that it was O.K., provided I was not absent for long. However, on this occasion, I was feeling nervous about leaving the ward, for I had begun to feel physically weak again.

I walked out, and a male, coloured nurse tried to grab me by force to restrain me and force me to go back. He came from Bangladesh, so afterwards I called him the Bangladeshi nurse. I told him that I had got permission to go out, so he had better leave me alone. I went out and paid two postal orders which Andrew had brought me, and which belonged to the MPU into my account, and bought enough knitting wool for a jumper.

When I got back the Bangladeshi nurse was very angry and shouted some abuse at me. I shouted back at him, and he told me off again.

So I said, "Well, if you talk to anyone like that, you in return deserve to be so spoken to by me."

Then he sat down by the TV set. I went and sat down next to him. He whispered to me, "Piss off."

But I answered back, "I am not doing that. I am sitting next to you, so that you can keep quiet."

Then suddenly he leapt up and said, "I can't stand this any longer. I am going home," and he left the ward.

The remark, "I am going home," was often made by one of the patients, a young man who was interested in football. He was apparently being given E.C.T., often used to get depressed and lie on his bed, drawing the curtains around him, and remarking, "I am going home."

Andrew came in to visit me, and I think this was the third time he came. He tried to interest other patients in the MPU, but no-one seemed interested. He stayed past visiting hours, and I noticed that some of the other patients also kept their visitors past visiting hours.

On the very next night, two of the patients had unexpected visitors, who stayed with them long past visiting hours, and there were no objections from the staff. I sat next to one of these visitors and chatted to him quite a bit, when he was not speaking to his elderly relative, and he remarked that I seemed perfectly well to him.

"Who are you, people?" I asked the visitors, and they answered, "Oh, we are the bricklayers."

"Oh, has the General Strike started yet?" I asked him. "We don't really get to know much about the news in here."

"Oh, not yet," he answered. "you would be sure to hear about that," and he gave me some nuts, and I gave him a sweet.

The staff were becoming frantic. Suddenly all the patients who had previously been depressed seemed to be looking well, and demanding lots of attention.

Medicine was being refused, and the staff had stopped giving it by force, but only gave it to those who approached the medicine trolley.

Twice I met Dominic in the grounds; the first time, I was happy for I had a bottle of orangeade in my hand, and he smiled.

The second time, I said, "I am so depressed. I can't stand it any more."

"What is it?" he said.

I said, "It is the noise. I can't stand it."

Then he said, "Well, you could go home."

But I had the feeling that I could not.

"No," I said. "The noise is also there."

He looked frightened and ran away, and I felt frightened also.

The Tuesday after Easter, there was a group therapy session. "No-one spoke," so I suggested, "Why does not everyone give a one-minute talk on the reason why they came into hospital." Dr. Silverman said, "What about you? Why did you come in?" "Oh, " I said, "But I came in for a rest, as I was suffering from overwork. That was all that was the matter with me. It was overwork. Now let someone else speak." One coloured man did speak and said, "I think she has a good idea. We should all say something," and then he went on to complain about something that was wrong in the hospital. Someone else said, "In the mornings the water is cold, and one cannot wash properly." However, of the twenty other patients, all were silent. Then Dr. Silverman asked me, "Do you think these meetings are a good idea?" I said, "Yes, they are. It is much better to discuss things in the open, than privately with a doctor." He did not make any comment, but as no-one else felt inclined to speak, he declared that the meeting was concluded.

On Wednesday and Thursday I attended occupational therapy spasmodically, for I could not endure sitting on the ward. On the ward I had made a start on doing my own knitting, but although on one day did quite a lot, shortly afterwards I had to cease, as I was constantly interrupted. Members of the staff were constantly asking to look at my pattern and advising me to wear trousers with the jumper, and very soon, I became quite unable to look at the pattern, and understand what it said, for if staff did not interrupt, the patients did.

Meal-times were also becoming difficult, for patients were all told to come up for their meals, but when I approached the trolley, I was told to go back to the table and sit and wait. But everyone else was made to come up for their meal, even though some of them did not feel inclined to do so. Luckily, Frank, a patient was still allowed to help with serving the meals, and he usually got mine for me. But as for me, I was not allowed to get a meal either for myself, or for any other patient, who might ask me to do so.

One day we went to occupational therapy to take part in a quiz, which was quite interesting. I took both my handbag and the bag containing knitting with me, because the knitting bag, although not stolen, was constantly being moved around if I left it on the ward, even near my bed, and I did not like having to go and constantly look round for it. Unfortunately, my knitting bag was missing at the end of the occupational therapy session, but I was told that Anna had taken it back to the ward for me. I went back to the ward and found Anna, a patient, who was an attractive young woman. She was in the staff-room and had my knitting bag. So I said, "Ah, I see you've got my knitting bag." "Yes," she said, "That is yours," and she gave it to me, but then said, "But that blue handbag is not yours. It is mine." "But it is not. Everyone knows it is mine," I said. She tried to grab it by force and we had a tussle. Fortunately, the Cypriot nurse was there and he said, "Run away, Anna. It is hers", and she did so.

Shortly afterwards, two policemen arrived and they brought a young man in with them. I guessed that he was "On Section." He sat down in a chair and looked so dejected, that I offered him a sweet. Though he took it, he did not appear to thank me. Soon afterwards, I saw him in the corridor. Some staff were there, but he was trying to go down the stairs. So I said to him, "Oh, I don't think it's any good. I don't know what it is out there. I think it is the police or something." I think it was an occupational therapist who said to me, "Oh, you buzz off. Get back inside the ward." The new man sat around for a bit and said, "Well, I am not taking notice of anyone. No-one is telling me what to do." Then he sat down at a table where Hilda the "Conservative" was also sitting, and I went and sat there too. Hilda immediately moved away; this behaviour was quite consistent, for she never allowed me to sit at the same table as her. The young man got up and started saying something. And I got up also and gave the clenched fist salute and the young man said, "I'm not taking notice of anyone," and went into his room, for he had a side-room and slept alone. Then Anna started to wave her hand to me.

I think it was on this night that I had another visitor. She cheered me up immensely. It was Marjorie, who I have known for fourteen years, but she noticed my hair, which looked terrible, and decided to wash it for me, and this seemed to give me pleasure. But she noticed all the things I did not have, like a dressing-gown, and that there was no plug in the sink, and that I had got only toilet soap, but no shampoo. These inconveniences seemed like minor details to me, when I started to think about the psychological interrogations, the noise and the attempts to frighten me, and the abuse which had often been shouted at me. But they seemed like real hardships to her. And I said, "I'll be out soon. But I am so glad you have come. It is wonderful to see you." She said, "Well they say that this is a good hospital," but I think she said this to cheer me up. I did not tell her about the sort of things which went on there. She would not have believed it, or I think not. But at least she shares my opinion about the dangers involved in taking tablets. She, like me, is an analytical chemist, and she told me that she, herself looks up anything given her by her doctor in Martindale, the standard pharmaceutical text-book before taking it; even drugs for physical illness, for she thinks that doctors make many mistakes.

I have not mentioned the second session of beauty treatment. It was on the Thursday before I left hospital. Quite a crowd of us, including Anna went with the occupational therapist to the second floor ward. We were all glad to have a change of scene. When we reached it, we all sat down at a large table, and the therapist announced that the cupboards containing materials for beauty treatment were locked and she could not find the keys. After an interval she said, "Well, what can any of you do for yourselves?" Hardly anyone had any materials for making up, such as powder or lipstick, though many of the women normally used make-up. By chance I had some lipstick in my bag, but my mirror had been smashed, and was just a piece of glass with dangerous, jagged edges. Yet it was still possible to use it. So I got it out and used some lipstick. Then I said to Anna, who was sitting next to me, "Do you use lipstick, Anna?" She said "Yes", so I asked her if she would like to borrow mine. I said, "This is all I have, Anna." She took the lipstick and the jagged piece of glass and used it to make up her lips. She seemed a very subdued person now. A man who was probably her husband had previously brought her a very expensive bouquet. Yet she did not appreciate the flowers, but just wanted to go home, finding her confinement cruel and heartless. Yet, even if for the time, she did not fit in at home, surely there could have been some other place for her to stay temporarily, other than a treatment centre. A boarding-house at Bournemouth might have been better, for she was quiet and gave no trouble to anyone.

After a period during which the occupational therapist was scuttling around trying to find some materials from the hospital stores, she came back and announced that only shampoo for washing hair was available, although on this occasion, other types of beauty treatment had been promised. It was the afternoon, and I was feeling so tired. Several ladies had their hair washed and set, and then the therapist said, "What about you, Joan? I can fit you in now." Although on the previous occasion I had been glad of the opportunity of a hair-do, this time I refused. Although my hair was in a very bad state, I felt so weak and tired that I did not feel like having it done, and moreover knew that the set would fall out of my greasy hair in two days. So I said, "No, thank-you," though the therapist tried to press me.

19.4.1974: Friday, April 19th, 1974 dawned. Earlier in the week, Dr. Renton had casually mentioned that I would probably be discharged on this day, and I was determined to leave the hospital. All the remaining patients in our ward were to be transferred to the German Hospital in Dalston Lane on the following Tuesday, and apart from anything else, whether this new hospital would have been better or worse, I could not stand the idea of being shunted about again. A group of the doctors and their subordinate staff, nurses, social workers and occupational therapists marched into the ward for the morning session when patients were interviewed individually before the whole staff group. Before breakfast, I had removed all my possessions from my locker and packed them into my bag; there remained nothing in my locker but my coat. I sat near the television set and told the ward orderly when she entered that I did not want breakfast, but would have a cup of tea. This was refused. "Sit at the table or else!", but I felt very aggressive and grabbed myself a cup of tea, and sat alone, drinking it. When I saw Dr. Renton come in, I spoke to him about my discharge, but he said, "You'll have to wait your turn to see what is decided." So I went and put my coat on and sat at one of the empty tables and soon started crying. Dinner time was approaching. I sat down but made no motion to help set the tables. The other patients were all sitting there with me. They seemed to be on my side for no-one was laying the tables, except Hilda. They were all on strike. Then Hilda said, "Who will help me?" Why should I have to wait on you lot?" But no-one would do so, not even Frank, who was usually helpful about the ward. I went up and slapped Hilda gently and said, "Sit down. Let the staff do it. It's their job."

So she had to sit down, and we were all on strike. The staff were angry, for patients did not usually act like this.

Denis Roberts, the social worker came up and spoke to me; he was always a bit nicer than the other members of the staff, so I calmed down. Then I went back to the staff office and queued up behind the other patients and eventually I succeeded in being invited to sit in the staff meeting. Then I said, "I wish to be discharged."

Dr. Silverstone said, "Well we have no wish to detain you here. You are free to go."

So I said, "Will you discharge me," and he said, "Yes, on condition that you attend the German Hospital commencing next Wednesday as a day patient." I agreed to this and said that by that time I would be able to have my hair set, as staff considered that people with untidy hair were ill.

(1996 comment - I never attended the German Hospital. There was too much to do at Mayola Road when I returned there.)

There was a bit of an argument among the staff at the meeting. Eventually I was permitted to go, being told by Denis Roberts to ask Miss O'Driscoll to accompany me to the administrative office to collect my property. (About two hours afterwards I left the hospital. It took two hours to persuade the hospital authorities to let me have my pass. The pass was necessary for me to reclaim my money kept in the office).

I went up to Miss O'Driscoll and told her what Denis Roberts had said. But she said, "Oh, you'll have to wait. We are on strike as well." There was a scowl on her attractive face. But I needed her not. I went back to Denis and told him that Miss O'Driscoll was busy and that I was capable of finding the administrative office myself. "Would he give me the authority to do so?"

He said, "Yes," for he had always had some respect for me. I picked up my bag with relief. I was far too tense to stay in the ward for another minute and wished to go home to rest. Soon I reached the administrative office, and then because I was weak, thought I was not nearly so well as those considered to be ill. However, I asked the person on the desk for my personal documents. Before he gave them to me, he phoned the ward, for he said that someone should have accompanied me to the office.

I said, "Ask Mr Denis Roberts about that, for he said that I was fit enough to go on my own." He phoned Denis and my statement was confirmed, and at last I walked out of the hospital, very weak but capable of living in freedom. When I reached the bus and got on, I was trembling and the driver had to tell me how to insert the necessary coins in the box, in the new flat-rate fare single decker bus. This seemed a difficult job for me to do ---to insert two coins into a box, for my short stay in hospital had completely exhausted me, and when I reached home, it was necessary for me to spend the next two weeks resting, just looking after my own needs. I was feeling too tired even to visit a doctor in order to get a sickness certificate. (I had already got one sickness certificate from Denis Roberts, the hospital social worker covering the period in hospital). Therefore I lost sickness benefit for the next two weeks, for I was too tired to claim it. But very soon, I felt well again, and felt that hospital was the last place to go, if one needed a rest. Far better, if circumstances permit, to take a holiday in Bournemouth.

(1996 comment - For a short time, I believe, the regime at Hackney Hospital in F Block for psychiatric patients was alleviated by MPU activities; however, the overcrowding and lack of materials and space for occupational therapy persisted, and in a short time, life on the wards reverted to what it was before the intervention of MPU. Fortunately, the sort of patients who were in these wards in 1974 now have accommodation in the newly built Homerton Hospital, and it is hoped that their conditions are better, as there is much more interest in good practice in mental health to-day, despite the underfunding).

When I got home from Hackney Hospital things were very difficult. Mice had infested my room and were running about everywhere and it was impossible to keep clean. We agreed to get a cat. The first cat who arrived was called Spatz. I loved this cat, who often slept for periods on my bed. Soon after Spatz arrived, Lily found another stray cat in the garden. Andrew and Valerie decided to take her in, and Lily called her Dusty. She was a tabby cat speckled with ginger spots. This cat was Lily's favourite cat. Dusty spent most of her time in Lily's room. The cats were both fed with solid food in a common feeding bowl downstairs, so the bond Spatz formed with me was one of pure affection, as I did not feed him. One day Spatz brought me a present, which I did not appreciate, but it was well meant. My door was open and I was standing up doing some work at the sink. Spatz quietly entered and dropped the dead mouse he was carrying in his mouth at my feet.

He seemed to say, "Look what a good boy am I."

Spatz thought I was stupid when I got a dustpan and brush, swept the dead mouse into it, wrapped it in paper and deposited it immediately in the dustbin. He did not bring me another present, but continued to sleep on my bed, whenever I was taking a rest there.

In June, Dusty had kittens. There were six in the litter. When they were born, several were tangled and glued tightly together, and Andrew spent a whole day separating them and cleaning them, before returning them to their mother. One of these kittens, which Lily named Shadow had a crippled back leg. It was only half the normal length. Shadow could not run as fast as the other kittens, but she had the longest life.

Lily named all the kittens. Three were tabby, one was ginger, one was black. Shadow was rather a plain shade of grey. Two tabbies were named Cheeky and Tiptoes; the ginger cat was a tom-cat which was called Ginger. Homes were found for two of these kittens, leaving four kittens and two full-grown cats in the house. By the end of 1974, we had six large cats; all the females were neutered. These cats made the communal house more like home as not only did they keep the mice away, but often calmed people who were unhappy and agitated.