To London.

Clearing my throat and finding my deepest voice, I introduced the archetypes. As I explained the meaning our inner dragons, heroes and maidens I was aware that three of the men in the group were barely listening. I quickly understood that yesterday they had all been working with the group lesbian and she had obviously annihilated the feelings of all three. I felt some amusement and pity at these sensitive flowers so completely trampled by the lesbian and then rose a modicum of anger. I imagined taking an axe and surgically removing all the rage from her bloated and smothering plexus. As for the men, I'd have given them a whole days work on the art of telling people to fuck off. And, of course, on mothers.

We moved on to the most shattering part of the day. I suspected the lesbian would get a few projections of dragon thrown her way and the three men, hurrah, released their anger in doing so. I usually get a few pitched my way, often as hero. While this is mildly flattering and allows me to confirm the women I have seduced, I actually prefer to be considered dragon. However, for the first time in memory I was today considered a maiden. A rather plump and delicate lady in her fifties, always inclining forward to show me her breasts as she spoke, decided to make a play with me as her fucking maiden. I was devestated. If she had said dragon or hero I may have considered a gentle blow job in the toilets, but in asking her precisely what she wished to save me from, she shrivelled. The last time I experienced maternal pity I had paid for the pleasure and long may that continue.