It was cold, very cold. Everything was covered with snow.
“You can't stay here, love – you'll catch a death.”
A man dressed as an English policeman with helmet grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “You'd better come with me.” He led me to a car, he opened the door, he put a large, brown, paper bag on the seat. “Get in!” He helped me in.
The car was very old-fashioned, the steering wheel was on the right, but it was nice and warm. After a ten-minute ride he stopped in front of a large house, two nurses came running out and helped me into the house.
We walked through a large room, a large number of older women were watching a TV with a very small screen, they ignored me. The nurses took me to an office and asked who I was.
I saw a reflection of myself, I had short, thin, white hair on my head and I was wearing a nightie. I noticed an English wall calendar – October 1957 – I must be careful – don't mention I was born in 1978. I said:
I woke up, I was tucked up in bed, I was wearing a nightie, a different nightie, I was also wearing a diaper. “Where am I?”
“In the Cheadle Home for Gentle Folk, Mrs Spikerman. It's in Cheadle, near Manchester.”
I've been to Manchester several times on business, but I had never heard of Cheadle. What had happened to me? What to do? What happens next, I don't know.