Family? No, as good a relationship with the kin as anyone could hope for.

Friends? I choose wisely…

The filth and the fumbling? Two times a week. Three if I’m bored. Seven if there’s a good update on YouPorn.

Money? I have next to none, but I don’t think it would be appropriate to say so in here. Like wanking beeswax o’er the Pope’s Sunday trousers. Like mounting the effigy by the altar for to shag a seraph in the ear. Like tickling a vicar’s willy mid-service. Like farting in the guru’s beard. Like-

“So,” says he. “Stress. What are you stressed about?”

The test takes about five minutes, during which time I learn only that I am indeed stressed about the things I said I was stressed about, for the needle gave a nigh-on-imperceptible quiver 'round about the time I said so, or at least it did after your man there got to fidgeting a bit with the article on the far-side.

“What does this mean?” I ask.

“It means you're stressed,” says he. “And this…” he holds aloft a copy of Dianetics, “will tell you why.”

Thinking - I know why. I just told you why. Ah well. Best just to push the bottom lip out a bit, do some nodding, say about I’m skint right now but I’m ever so interested so I am and I’d be a crazy, scabby, stinkin’ fuckin’ hoor if I was to bet against me stopping by to pick one up when I’m a touch more flush about the fivers and the tens.

For a time Sir Fleming and I stand gawking at the folks on the floor below, the folks with the scribbling and the big clocks and the air of solemn contemplation hung like shrouds about their bodies. “I.Q tests,” your man says in passing. “You’re welcome to take it if you want.”

Sir Fleming and I exchange a set of glances in the key of Damn The Test More I Want To Take, thanking him anyway, and promising to take news of L. Ron to the people of Ireland soon as they get the potatoes working again.

The End And So On