Later, on my walk, I wondered why I felt I had to be suspicious of ‘normality’. The striking thing about the normal is that there is nothing normal about it: normality is the gentrification of ordinary madness – ask an Surrealist. In analysis ‘the normal child’ is often synonymous with the obedient good child, the one who only wants to please parents and develops what Winnicott called ‘a false self’. According to Henry, obedience is one of the problems of the world, not the solution, as so many have thought. But couldn’t there be a definition of the normal which didn’t equate it with the ordinary or uninspiring? Or which wasn’t coercive or ridiculously prim?