She made me tea.

As a last gesture, laden with insufferable pity and disdain, Helen makes me tea. So careful not to brook any actual questions about my chair at Glasgow university (in case I change my mind), she enquires gently about the smell in my room. It's been a week since the quarter pipe so, not unduly concerned but feigning astonishment, I'm soon on all fours searching for those pesky mice. Meanwhile Neil, sipping his own tea, is fairly confident it's not smelly mice at all. I take a deep breath, weighing the anger, choosing to ignore it and him. And this is not difficult for in the annihilating presence of Helen, Neil is of no consequence. He was very likely a disappointment to his mother and, preferring to maintain that role, will probably be deeply gratified for any confirmation going. This is an occasional shame for, when alone, he can be a humourous and ironic Gestaltist. The end result of this mid morning escapade was that I now have three fictions to maintain, that of my imminent departure to Glasgow, the run of mice in my room and, of course, the ongoing pretence that I actually believe in therapy.

Later, George called.

Would I care to see the Rowlandson oil (1821) he has just purchased?

(A woman masturbating on a platform before a circle of gawping men).

I nearly cried in gratitude.