He says he is famous.

My first session with a pop singer who, while resembling a salesman of things plastic, assures me he is very famous and, such the vanity, chooses to think my ignorance of him a therapeutic ploy. We may have spoken of other things but I sensed he was playing this game with me the whole session long and so profoundly has fame regressed him, I felt our only hope was the return of Michael, the hypnotist, to bring this balefully boring man out of his trance. He had filled the room with mirrors and, for a moment, even I succumbed and imagined myself Jacques Lacan and, in imitation of that bastard, considered slamming the door on this wanker fifteen minutes early.

And the day never recovered.

With Helen off for the week, I left early and walked home with nothing in my mind except Boucher's Hercules, his hand fiercely clutching the breast of Omphale. George invited me round for supper, but with nerves frayed and feeling mildly geriatric, I declined.