I caught chicken-pox aged fifteen, and was incarcerated in Sick Wing, in a tiny room overlooking the railway line and river (actually really nice) with the cinder path underneath, two floors down. I didn't have it too badly - can't remember feeling ill at all, really - but I did knit the one and only jumper I've ever knitted. It was orange.

The lovely Deb Pengelley used to call up and say goodnight, when walking beneath the window on her way up to the boarding house at night. We set up a conversation, held briefly. Gels who were on the brink of death were not meant to lean out of high windows and converse with mortals. Debbie knew I was knitting. I knew she had a stache of sweets. She always did - and a plan was hatched. When all was clear, she'd somehow get me some sweeties! Yippee.

Next evening, came her voice... "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair...". I was ready. A skein of orange wool was duly let down from the window, and pulled back up, with sweeties attached. Bless Debbie. This continued for three or four evenings, with great success. On the fourth evening, I was standing on the bed, leaning out of the window, hanging on to my end of the wool, hissing down 'Get on with it - someone'll come!', when someone did. There was a cough. DBL , the Headmistress, had come into my room and was standing there, trying not to smile. 'Your parents rang to see how you were,' she said. 'I think I can tell them you are better, don't you?' I was discharged the next day, and the incident was never mentioned.