Gareth and I walked up the garden path.

If not for being so absorbed in suicidal consideration of Thom's discretion on my behalf the day before, I could easily have slowed my pace and avoided this encounter with Gareth. I gestured for him to enter but as he did so, clutching a rather twee canvas bag, he turned and with an aggressively effeminate hand on his hip said, 'You're not going to Edinburgh at all, are you?' I slowly wiped my feet on the mat. What a tiresome and literal man. But happily, when at last I lifted my eyes to meet his, he'd gone.

The hand on the hip, his insane elbow. Gareth's anger was an exhibition of an ancient maternal force and as I entered my room, sniffing, I began to wonder if I wasn't starting to resemble his errant father. And so, settling in my chair and deciding I was more than happy with his teenage projection, I checked my client list.

A little note from Helen. The handwriting is hard and pointy, almost etched into the paper, there are no longer any soft contours to her letters. It wouldn't take a graphologist to see that Helen is plainly menopausal. And yet, wasn't I always resistant to her slightly matronly air? At our first meeting this resistance took the form of my utter certainty that Helen was a woman who would never enjoy fellatio, only ever administer it. Undoubtedly, this visual has impaired our working relationship ever since.

Will I be going to the meeting on wednesday?

Oh, Helen.

You're stitching me up.