In September 2008 I accompanied the police as they entered a house in Tollesbury. I was a psychiatric nurse at the time. The owner of the house was one of my patients. He had not been seen for two weeks - neither had his wife or his son. What I saw that evening will stay with me forever. On the walls of the lounge, in tiny, neat black writing, were thousands and thousands of words. The torch beams picked them out as if they were groups of well-ordered flies. The words continued up the stairway, onto the landing walls and into the main bedroom. I had been in the house before and had seen some of the writing upstairs. Still I was mesmerised. What you are about to read are the words that I saw on those walls. I have ordered them into chapters and taken the liberty of providing chapter headings. I have inserted two documents midway through which I trust will make sense when you come to them. I have since resigned my post as a community mental health nurse and no longer work in psychiatry. The patient of whom I speak is called Simon Anthony. I have met him only once - yet he is, and will always remain, my hero.