It’s December 2003, not long before Christmas, and I am sitting in a temporary office made out of a cutained off area of a hospital ward that previously housed a bed. Set up as a makeshift diabetic clinic while the hospital I used to visit for my regular check ups was undergoing a major renovation, the doctor in front of me listens as I tell him my sorry tale.

I haven’t visited the clinic for some time, at least a year, despite my very erratic blood sugars that have been wildly swinging from very high to very low. For a type 1 diabetic it’s not very good and I’m told I’m lucky I haven’t had any complications from it. The doctor, a consultant, tells me it’s time for a radical change and that he’s got a perfect solution for me and my diabetic problem. “A new insulin!” he enthuses, a…