Like The Dane, I have revenge on the brain. Once again, Terry on reception abuses me to damn me, cruelly targeting the imperfections on my head. Frankly, I’m beginning to wish his too too solid flesh would melt.
I need to strike back, so am delighted to learn he’s just spent £250 on hypnotherapy in an effort to quit smoking.
‘It’s worse than kicking smack,’ he complains, gnawing a fist.
‘If it’s any consolation, I know exactly how you feel,’ I say earnestly, inspecting my fingernails. ‘I’ve given up crisps for lent.’
[Terry’s reply cannot be published for legal reasons]