It’s only a moment away. But then I bet even Paul Simon knows everything is always a moment away.

I like being away. Not that I’ve travelled a lot, but I will do one day. Anyhow, I did Marseille on the school French exchange in year 9. The family even took me up to Monaco. Glam that was and I’m not talking rock. (I doubt Princess Grace wears platforms and sequinned flares.)

We saw where the cars race in the streets and a big tropical fish aquarium thing. Only Monsieur Deleur got cross because I took so long in the café, writing a postcard home. Apparently the French just put, ‘Tout ca va. Au revoir.’ Well, they don’t in Yorkshire. We get the most out of our postage and cram days of what we’ve been doing into it, so it can be passed around relatives before it ends up on grandma’s mantelpiece.

I’ve also been to Wales. Does that count as abroad? There’s also been Butlins and the caravan at Flamborough Head, but they definitely don’t count.

Today I’m a different kind of visitor. No-one takes their holidays in this place and here no-one is a tourist. I’ve heard that in the olden days people would come and even pay to skeg the loonies in an asylum. But no-one wants to see them now, even though they’re still a joke. ‘You’re mad, you. Should be in Menston!’ they say at school, when you do something daft. Well, I am in Menston now - but it’s she who did something daft.

It must have been dead posh here once, probably a mansion built for whoever owned the whole of Menston town back then. High Royds. Well, it’s high enough with that big clocktower but I’m not sure what a ‘royd’ is. Full of Victorian gloom, but something in me sort of likes Gothic stuff - same as with those Hammer Horrors I always watch with my fingers spread over my eyes. There’s a dark woven around this place, with its stone walls blackened by centuries of industrial smoke wafted up from Bradford. Its massive windows somehow manage not to let in much light, yet its corridors trap every sound into an empty echo. It’s like some fairy-tale goblin palace.

We’re told to go in the dining room. To be honest, it’s more like a canteen with its smeared Formica tables and stiff chairs that you can’t help but fidget on. There is no tea or coffee. We’re only visitors and mustn’t be too encouraged.

Dad coughs.

‘Hope it’s the blue, not the purple today. She always seems better when she’s in the blue, don’t you think?’

I hadn’t noticed. She never talks to me much anyway.

My Mum arrives, steered by a nurse who sits her down, sniffs and leaves. Dad puts on a big smile, even though she’s wearing the purple nautical-style dress. What sailor ever wore that colour, I don’t know. Even the white oblong collar is trimmed with green not blue. But 70s fashion can be daring and zany, it said in last week’s Jackie. Still, why does my mother always have to wear such embarrassing clothes?

Her face is a similar colour to her frock, so I know they’ve done it to her again. She can’t talk about it, but I’m sure it makes her worse. Dad won’t stop the doctors because they’ve told him it can work miracles sometimes. But that can’t be right. Dad’s an engineer – well, a fitter at an engineering works–so he must know a bit about electric. It can’t be right.

Mind you, Highroyds must be one of the few places left with loads of electricity these days. Last night I had to wash my hair by candlelight and now I’ve got dandruff because I didn’t get all the soap out. The first time I’ve ever heard Dad swear is over ‘this ruddy three-day week’. He says the unions will soon have Heath out. I think that means the power cuts will stop.

They ought to stop at Highroyds, whether they have power or not. Looking at my Mum’s glazed eyes and her trembling hands, it’s clear they have too much power here.

She’s quiet tonight. She mumbles that they’ve given her new tablets. At least we don’t have to listen to her stories again about the other patients, like the one who says she killed someone but the police brought her here because they had no cells left. ‘People in Menston say anything,’ Dad told me, but does he mean the murderer woman or my Mum? Electric shock torture and would-be killers on the loose. I want to leave this place, go home – all three of us go home.

But instead we sit and look at each other, then chitchat about the latest strikes and how I’ve lost my slide rule again, until the hour is up. The nurse reappears. Dad and I are dismissed.

‘Rest and get well soon,’ cries Dad, as we break away.

‘Wear the blue dress next time, Mum,’ I whisper, then turn away into a wet blur before my eyes.