After a week in the grip of some virus, I finally begin to recover. The world seems a brighter place, with better food. A few days later, I’m away from home on band business when something odd happens: I wake to find the ceiling above my head turning in slow circles. I watch for a while, then close my eyes. When I open them, the ceiling is still spinning. There is but one logical conclusion: the bed I’m sleeping in must be rotating on a giant turntable.

I stand up, and the floor tilts away from me. When I take a step forwards, the room lurches like a ship coming about. I plant my feet wide and wait for the sensation to pass. It doesn’t. Otherwise, I feel pretty good, but I’m having trouble concentrating on otherwise.

“I’ve heard of that,” my wife says when I ring her. “It’s definitely a thing.”

“I need to get home,” I say. “But first I need to be able to put on shoes.”

“A recognised, post-viral thing,” she says.

By the time I arrive home that evening, my outlook has deteriorated. A full day of vertigo has left me queasy, and the walk I’ve adopted is pretty ageing.

I have to chase the words around the computer screen to read them, but it’s pretty clear to me that I’m suffering from post-viral labyrinthitis, an inflammation of the inner ear. The acute phase of the vertigo I’m experiencing should subside on its own in a few days, or a week, or possibly a month, depending. In the corner of the relevant NHS web page is a video called Rebecca’s Story. Rebecca’s symptoms never went away.

“I think we should leave early tomorrow,” my wife says. “First thing.”

“To go where?” I ask, turning my head towards her gingerly.

We’re spending the weekend away, she tells me, with friends. It’s written down.

“How am I going to manage that?” I say.

“You’re either dizzy here or dizzy there,” she says. “What’s the difference?”

When we arrive at our friends’ place the next morning, I discover they’ve been forewarned. They ask about my disorder, but it’s hard to describe, and it doesn’t look like anything. My wife proposes a walk on the beach. I stomp along the shingle, falling behind, the world pitching and rolling ahead of me.

The next morning, my wife accuses me of being difficult.

“I don’t feel well,” I say. “I have vestibular issues.”

“You’ve just been sitting around,” she says. “I drove all the way here.”

“That’s because I can’t drive!” I say. “I can barely use stairs!”

“And I have to deal with all your moaning,” she says. “At least you can’t complain in front of other people.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You’re forcing me to pretend everything’s fine.”

“Maybe,” she says.

“And now you’ve got us invited for lunch somewhere else on the way back.”

“I can see that was possibly insensitive.”

“A storm-tossed lunch, on a following sea.”

“We won’t stay long,” she says.

We don’t stay long, because it turns out my wife also wants to visit a nearby antiques market before we head home. “Just a few minutes,” she says, pulling into the car park. “Stay here if you want.”

“No, I’ll come in,” I say. Old men sit in the car by themselves, I think. Staring at the horizon with rheumy eyes, tabulating ancient regrets.

In the antiques market, I get myself trapped between two cabinets full of china, while the floor undulates beneath me. I’m afraid to move. In the corner of the room, I see a wicker basket full of old walking sticks. So close, I think, and so far away.