Naive

By Jack Dey

“T-h-i-s... is Cindy Furgus, Eileen,” Snell beamed like a smiling hyena, filling the silence with his squeaky, dog-like voice and drawing both Ms Slacktight’s attention and mine to the salivating drool leaking around the corners of his mouth.
E-W-E-L-L..!-L-L...L-L! Breathe-in... breathe-out! The thought hadn’t had a chance to make it from my stomach to my lips before Ms Slacktight cut off my detailed description of Snell’s unabashed crawling with a strange statement of her own.
“Do you like travelling, Cindy?”
D..do I like travelling?! It's no secret my ambition is to be one of the finest foreign correspondents this paper has ever had in its arsenal. Ms Slacktight offered me an assignment to cover and expose a fanatical religious figure in the poorest areas of Bogotá, Colombia. You heard her say to Snell that I was perfect for the assignment! Apparently... No, I’m not insane, and no, I haven’t had time to research Bogotá or Columbia. What’s wrong with Bogotá?! Come to think of it, one of the female foreign correspondents was stationed in Bogotá. I remember the newspaper staff used to ogle her reports with awe when they came across the editor’s desk, but I haven’t seen one of her articles for quite some time. No. I don’t see the connection and I told you I can’t get out of it! Please stop! Your cryptic games are really scaring me and after confiding in you, I’m beginning to think I really must be nuts for listening, let alone taking this assignment. What should I do? Will you come with me? Please come with me!
Would you trust Anj with Twinkie? Find out what happens when Cindy Furgus, Twinkie and Anj collide. Naive is a satirical and hilarious look at a very serious issue. Question everything and trust no one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Dey
• Release date: Aug 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463386446

Jack Dey

Jack Dey, born to adventure, lives in the beautiful rainforest of tropical North Queensland, Australia. He has three loves in his life: Jesus; the Editor—his wife of 30 something years; and writing adventure novels. He is the author of MAHiNA; Paradise Warrior; Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq; The Valley of Flowers; La Belle Suisse (co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette); Zero; Naive; and Brindabella's Prophet. He is currently researching and writing his latest book, Apostate. Jack writes only to please Papa God and considers his writing a ministry, demanding nothing from the reader for his e-books. If you like Jack Dey’s books and would like to support his ministry, please consider praying for the team at Jack Dey and telling your friends about his other titles. New books are constantly being written with the intention of being a pencil in Jesus’ hand and bringing joy and encouragement to you, the reader.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The first time I heard the saying, ‘Tin fish at home in a concrete fish tank’, it made absolutely no sense at all to me. It’s quite possible the slight, attractive bent I felt towards a dishy colleague who used it may have had some bearing on its profoundness, but being another year older and much wiser, the bent has straightened somewhat, morphing into a distant but exasperated sigh. Especially when his ever-present girlfriend resembles a perfect siren... and is just as loud as one!

Even with all the negatives and after asking my colleague to repeat his distracting explanation several times, for reasons I can’t explain the meaning seems to have comfortably settled over my life and I’m never too far away from ‘tin fish at home in a concrete fish tank’. I will elaborate further, but first you need some facts.

Being a late bloomer and now approaching a staggeringly ancient twenty-nine, I qualified both as a journalist and a psychologist, having completed a double degree in journalism and psychology. Although I consider my gifts and talents are unique in helping people with their ‘problems’, I had to take my second choice as a journalist when few opportunities arose among the psyche community to apply my counselling genius. Even with this great tragedy and sobering loss to humanity, I still practise on my cat and the elderly neighbour who lives in the apartment next door. I have to admit though, the cat is more receptive but we are not fazed in any way and we push on regardless.

My neighbour is a strange man and shakes his head profusely whenever I attempt to engage him in the deep and meaningful things of life, trying to help him see that I have all the answers he needs. Lately he’s taken to hiding in people’s doorways whenever he sees me... sounds like a clear cut-and-dried case of detachment disorder to me and although he doesn’t know it, he definitely needs my expert help. However, nailing him down and getting him to attend my therapy sessions where I can pick at his emotional bandages and expose his mental wounds into my specialist air for healing is proving to be a daunting and frustrating challenge. Without doubt, I deem my psychology degree gives me superior insights to peer behind his—and all people’s—hidden facades. Try as they may, they can’t hide from my all-seeing knowledge. My neighbour doesn’t seem to appreciate, like the cat does: I can see right through him!

Stay tuned. I’ll keep you posted!

I’m tempted to lament the loss to the world of my expertise in such a vital area and become disappointed, but being negative represses the endorphin flow to the brain, stifles dopamine build up and encourages Parkinson’s. So I will turn my attention wholeheartedly to journalism and put on a happy face... no uncontrolled shaking for this talented little lady!

Switching heads is not a problem to someone like me and just to show you how adaptable I am, I intend to write an autobiography of my life and my adventures as a journalist so you can judge for yourself and agree: I am a truly unique woman among the less gifted. Like all adept people, there’s always a struggle to be recognised and a brute waiting in the shadows wanting to crush an exceptional person with their malicious jealousy. I’m sure you’ve heard of the tall poppy syndrome?! My brute turns out to be a complete department, led by the inauspicious... Snell!

Before we go any further and as I’m sure this account will be extremely popular, let’s get something straight right up front, and just so you are aware and aren’t tempted to listen to critical gossip, it wasn’t my fault it took ten years to finish my studies and then another year to find a job!

I’m not sure how I feel about that!

I do understand brilliance isn’t easily accepted in today’s envious world and especially among the ordinary people who lack the discernment we literary laureates possess. I can only concede, Ivan Snell—my current boss—is one of those people, taking some firm elemental convincing at the initial interview stage for him to look past the vivacious exterior to the shining journalist hidden within me. Using my best psychological suggestive techniques to lead the slow-moving simpleton, eventually he saw things from my perspective and the value in hiring someone of my artistic genre... something that is perfectly obvious to me and I’m sure to most normal, intelligent human beings. In my well educated opinion, it would appear Snell has a clear case of schizotypal personality disorder verging on narcissistic personality, although he could be described as borderline personality, too... maybe he’s all three!

It still puzzles me why he choked when I suggested I would make a valuable contribution to the foreign correspondent team, although knowing what I know about Snell now, it makes me wonder how he ever recognises anything at all, regardless of whether its inanimate or living. Doesn’t that sound suspiciously like dissociative fugue?

What do you think?

Even after Snell’s discouragement, it’s still no secret my ambition is to be one of the finest foreign correspondents this paper has ever had in its arsenal. Ivan Snell seems to be amused by this reasonable but oft-spoken of and hinted at dream, and sees fit to send me to cover assignments like a sewer pipe eruption at the Turkish embassy. When I complained bitterly about the job—of which I deem to be totally beneath the dignity of someone approaching my calibre—he capitulated and told me it would be an apt grounding for a gifted trainee foreign correspondent like myself. Then with a smirk he thought I didn’t see, he suggested the privileged opportunity offered me a valuable experience and that I should completely immerse myself in my subject, and then challenged me to deliver a detailed report equal to the occasion. What was that supposed to mean?! I tell you, it’s not easy getting along in a world filled with unpleasant Snells!

Lacking the opportunities to indulge my ambition and constantly told my genius was of better use at home, it’s now my intention to concentrate on writing this account and deliver a riveting autobiography, instead. After being stifled—and stagnating under Snell—I consider my burgeoning intellect needs an outlet, and a detailed and instructive description of my life would simply result in a best seller. It only stands to reason, my shining example would bring peace and harmony among the world’s population when they see how it’s supposed to be done. However, unlike most capable people having a stringent ambition to empower others, I intend to keep this account factual, brief and candid.

Stop laughing!

A journalist can tell the truth... especially when it can’t be avoided!

Are you right?!

Would you like a few more seconds to regain your composure before we continue, or do I suspect a developing obsessive compulsive tendency? Hmm! Where was I?! Oh, yes! Over the years, experience has taught me vast lessons, and within the process, I’ve gleaned a great wealth of knowledge. Because of the extent of such an instructive work, the effect it will have, and other obvious reasons, I’m considering adopting a solid and dexterous writing name to suit the tome.

Christened Cindy Furgus, it would appear this appellation can have some negative drawbacks, particularly when I work in a highly competitive environment like 'The Truth Advocate' and among stringently jealous and resentful colleagues who don’t have anywhere near the abilities moi possesses. There have been numerous times when I’ve intercepted my newsworthy articles drifting across the editor’s desk, drawing unrestrained laughter and gathering a suspicious crowd of co-workers to the amusement. I can only imagine whoever vandalised my credit to read... Sydney Fungus, and another of my extensive works to... Hey You, has little else to do with their time. It’s a good thing my psychology degree has equipped me well to deal with these brusque and unprofessional people who seem to have little honour to respect the exclusive literary work of a superior colleague and perhaps learn from my unique abilities.

Breathe-in... breathe-out!

Furgus! Get in here!

Uh..oh! I’ll have to go for now. When Snell bellows across the newsroom floor from his office and singles out a victim, everyone knows something has displeased his lordship. I can’t think what I’ve done, but as usual, the whole floor has gone quiet trying to eavesdrop and this just intensifies the nervous tension for the unfortunate individual on death row.

FURGUS! IN HERE... NOW!

*~*~*~*

Chapter 2

The walk to Snell’s office from my desk to his is less than 30 metres, but as I push my chair out and straighten my skirt, I’m amazed at how nervous I feel and how wobbly my knees have become. Of course, I recognise straightaway his attempts to control my response with fear and exert himself as the alpha male, battering me into a subservient female role. Don’t worry, girls, little does he know I’m awake to his schemes and if you know how... like I do... I’ll lead his mind with my superior knowledge and use it to my advantage, putting him back in his stereotypical, misogynistic male framework.

F-U-R-G-U-S!

UH... O... C.. COMING!

Glancing around the work area, I sense a sneering collegial attitude as if I’m about to meet some kind of deserved punishment, but I point-blank refuse to let the strength of peer pressure and conformity to the pack dictate my response. I want to assure you, that just because I’m whispering, the power of the crowd hasn’t succeeded in flustering me in any way, but I need a few vital seconds to calm my hammering heart and defuse the heat radiating from my face... I wonder what he wants?!

Breathe-in... breathe-out!

As I examine my subjective behaviour and scrutinise how I feel about that... my training leads me to test the unusual stress that Snell’s childish outburst has created, identifying the underlying messages and expected responses trying to wound the health of my sacred inner self.

You know... as I think about it... t-h-i-s is a perfect example of how authority figures use their position to intimidate, crush and abuse those under their control. They demand unquestioned obedience, and those subjected to their tyranny feel almost as if they have no choice but to comply. We in the know call this the obedience syndrome. It’s a dangerous situation where an individual’s self-defence and control mechanisms are trampled by a dictator, and has led to victims of this tactic performing acts against their moral and logical protection systems, coerced into decisions and situations they wouldn’t normally even consider. I offer, as evidence, the atrocities of the Nazi regime as proof of this ugly trick, and as I peer across the work environment and to the conforming faces of a modern Auschwitz, I declare the defence categorically rests, your honour!

After the little pep talk to myself and feeling somewhat terse and contemptibly disposed towards Snell, now I’m finding it hard to regain control and stem the growing resentment, but... and rightly so, I can tell you... I’m determined not to give in to the fear fodder his oversized ego craves. After all, it’s just smoke and mirrors—and Snell is only a little weed casting a cactus-sized shadow. Stay tuned as I take this prickly Whimpered-of-Oz down a pin or two, recapturing my self-control and a healthy self-focus without the turmoil of his penetrating and wounding emotional thorns. Searching for a legitimate distraction and to bring the ball back into my court, my eyes settle on my heels and the wayward strap of my shoe. Kneeling to the floor in the pretence of adjusting my footwear, I now have a legitimate cause to stall the confrontation and gain the psychological upper hand.

Take careful note, people! In the momentary stress-free vacuum I’ve just created, I have the perfect opportunity to examine how my feelings have been manipulated and plan a strategy, taking the offensive Snell by the horns and forcing him to bow to my superior intellect. While I sort through a myriad of tactics and select from my extensive arsenal of psychological weapons, I’m immediately comforted by—and transported back to—a particular experiment in college when my beloved psyche class re-enacted the Milgram experiment with a volunteer group from the unsuspecting GP (psyche-speak for general public... you’ll catch on if you pay close attention.)

Oh! So you’ve heard of it?!

Then you’ll appreciate my perfectly logical human response to Snell’s attempt at anarchy and the power a tyrant wields in this lopsided game. It’s difficult to fathom, the Snell—with his two dark and beady eyes, a furry nose and large, rat-like ears—could be accused of taking the lead role in this experiment and creating such fear, especially within someone as in control as I am and someone who has studied the technique exhaustively. Watch as I spring the rodent trap closed!

For the less adept and those unfamiliar with the Milgram experiment, let me explain while I leave the would-be oligarch to marinate for a few more minutes under my influence and maybe you won’t be tempted to let your inner person and self-enlightenment be trampled by your own seriously overbearing and obnoxious Snell!

Let me set the scene for you. Picture an enclosed and intimate clinical room. Above your head, bright and diffused fluorescent light floods every corner, with highly polished vinyl floors reflecting the intensity and numbing any hint of comfort. As the level of uneasiness rises within you and anxiety tussles with fear, three spotless and cold, featureless walls block out any connection with the outside world. But in the fourth, a large, cream coloured, opaque glass panel—engineered into the remaining wall—separates a smaller, closet-like space hidden behind it; and right next to the curious glass pane, a closed, solid white door gives a suspicion as to its existence. As you—the nervous participant, who we will call 'the volunteer'—are led into the clinical room by an aptly attired female nurse, you are met by a tall, greying, elderly professional man immaculately dressed in a dark suit and covered in a strikingly clean, white lab coat. Beside him, another less impressive man greets you also, but unknown to you, is an actor and will play a part... we will call this man 'the guinea pig'.

Under psychological suggestion and coerced by the atmosphere, although it is never stated, the clinician is intended to be mistaken by the volunteer as a professor or someone of great authority, and their presence immediately bullies the volunteer into a subservient mindset. When he speaks, the lab-coat-clad man has a powerful rumbling voice and a no-nonsense aura that seems to cloud your ability to think and demands total obedience to his instructions. In the clinical environment and among a myriad of mental illusions, this man appears to know what he is doing and immediately you are intimidated into trusting the propaganda your mind has been so slyly compelled into accepting.

Once the female assistant leads you into the test environment and seals your escape by disappearing from view, you notice immediately a small bench and a long, steel-box-like gadget set up on the tabletop facing the opaque glass wall. Across the face of the box is a row of switches, and below each switch is a label. On the extreme left, the first switch is identified by a green tag stating: 12 Volts. Then as your eyes are drawn to the remaining twenty switches, you notice the voltage increases and the label changes colour as it moves from left to right. On the extreme right, a switch is marked: 600 volts, and is encased in a blaring red warning... LETHAL. With your heart rate increasing, and as if to add credence to the seriousness of the situation, a substantial electric lead runs from the back of the box and across the floor to a powerpoint located on the wall and in full sight of you the volunteer, and this is where the experiment gains its most critical mental illusion.

After being introduced to the guinea pig and chatting pleasantly for a few brief moments, he lets you know he has a purported heart condition, but before you can react to this piece of information, he is escorted by the clinician to the room behind the glass panel and is no longer seen by you, but can communicate with you via a microphone and a speaker. The communication apparatus is duplicated on your table, so you can hear and respond to the guinea pig, also.

Once you’ve been instructed to take a seat at the table facing the strange box and the glass wall behind it, the experiment is explained to you in extreme and authoritative tones, leaving little chance for questions. You are told this is a vital test to see if a person can be taught to learn using a simple reward and punishment format. For each right answer, the guinea pig is verbally commended, but for each wrong answer, he is given an electric shock via the switch box on your table which is connected through cables to a special chair he has been strapped into.

As the experiment starts, the questions are read by you to the guinea pig through the communication apparatus while the authority figure stands over you and directs the test. The guinea pig acknowledges your question and gives the first correct answer, but soon his script demands a series of incorrect replies requiring punishment. The authority figure demands you react to the misdemeanour with a jolt from the first switch, delivering a small electric shock, but an indignant yelp from the guinea pig pricks your conscience and you begin to feel a sense of confusion. Moral decency creates a war of conscience within you and the reluctance to inflict pain on another human being, but when you exhibit this weakness and turn for guidance to the authority figure, he determinedly commands you to continue and reinforces the importance of the experiment.

At this point, I note that most people involved in this experiment continue on until the lethal shock has been administered, but only do so when they verbally transfer the blame back to the authority figure and exonerate themselves from all responsibility. This is how dictators can control people groups, using fear as a weapon and conformity to the crowd. 'Everyone else is doing it' and I don’t want to be singled out and be forced to trade places with the guinea pig... just goes to show you can’t trust people in white lab coats!

I remember first being introduced to this curious lesson at university. When volunteers were sought to take part in this experiment from our psyche class, I was the bravest and put myself forward without hesitation. But before the seriousness was explained to me conclusively, some confusion on the part of the leader led me to give the 600 volt shock at the first instance, when I thought the guinea pig deserved an appropriate response for a completely stupid answer to a perfectly well delivered question.

F-U-R-G-U-S...! GET IN HERE...! N-O-W...!

*~*~*~*

Chapter 3

Okay. So the big entry into Snell’s office wasn’t what I’d planned, and the fact I stumbled over the heel I’d just finished adjusting and ended up flat on my back at his feet wasn’t conducive to taking the tyrant down a pin or two, but I did notice he hadn’t polished his shoes for eons... a solid indicator of serious mental illness. There was a stunned moment when both Snell and I silently locked eyes over the unscheduled arrival, with me looking directly up his nose from the floor to the tangled forest of black and curling nose hair... E-W-E-L-L! G-R-O-S-S! URGH! It took a few seconds for my shuddering shoulders and my stomach to settle down after that, but I have to tell you, I recovered first and bounced to my feet, taking control of the situation immediately before my stupefied and less intelligent opponent had the slightest chance to react. When I began to brush down my attire and plan my next move, careful not to give off the wrong psychological messages, I heard another unanticipated voice enter the situation which momentarily broadsided my attack.

My goodness, girl! Are you alright?!

I had never been introduced to the managing director, Eileen Slacktight, before but I’m sure my quick recovery impressed the lady boss no end. Her voice seemed a little in awe of me. I did, however, intercept the secretive body language between Snell and Ms Slacktight, but I attribute my inability to decode the messages to the unexpected conference with the floorboards and a transitory derailment of my powerful and electrified brain signals. I was just about to ask them to re-enact their mime so I could study the communication and baffle the bossical duo with an expert and knowledgeable interpretation, when Snell interrupted me and distracted any attempts at displaying my massive discernment.

T-h-i-s... is Cindy Furgus, Eileen.

Snell beamed like a smiling hyena, filling the silence with his squeaky, dog-like voice and drawing both Ms Slacktight’s attention and mine to the salivating drool leaking around the corners of his mouth.

E-W-E-L-L..!-L-L...L-L!

Breathe-in... breathe-out!

The thought hadn’t had a chance to make it from my stomach to my lips before Ms Slacktight cut off my detailed description of Snell’s unabashed crawling with a strange statement of her own.

Do you like travelling, Cindy?

Her head tilted suspiciously to one side. Footnote here, people: never trust anyone who tilts their head when directing a question to you... except of course when they ask this question! D..do I like travelling?! Is the Pope, allegedly, Catholic?! Yet I managed to mask my excitement with a disinterested nod (you gain the psychological advantage by offering an unexpected answer). However, if she was adept, like me, she would’ve read my body language and seen me salivating worse than Snell!

I see by your response, Cindy, this may be a desire of yours. Am I right?

Oops! This chick is sharper than I thought and I need to be on my guard.

Tell me then, Cindy... Ms Slacktight probed, circling around my shocked demeanour to stand directly in front of me. (Great psychological tactic by the way!) If you’re in a vehicle that’s being driven at 100 kilometres per hour and travels for one hour, how far have you travelled?

Just wondering... and I’m not looking for help here... do you know? Never fear... I’m a details person and I’ll check my estimate on the way home tonight. I don’t know whether it was the shock of a perceived offer to travel, the suspicion of a trick question, or the fact I spent all of my first year at university honing, honing, honing my math skills that threw me off, but do you think I could solve the mystery? Duh! Of course I could, silly! Although, when I gave my calculated answer after several moments of intense concentration, Snell grinned and his eyes twinkled with a suspiciously ridiculous dumb look that only he can generate and it sent me panicking, recalculating my reply.

Snell’s stupid, unfortunate expression immediately shocked me back the years to my university days and a similar dumb look my math lecturer, Professor Holman, used to get when I took his classes, and in particular, the exam at the end of each course. It still puzzles me why he repeatedly banged his head on his desk when I offered him my brilliant third—and final—exam paper. He didn’t seem to appreciate my attempts at psychoanalysis either, hoping to get to the bottom of his crying psychosis and help with his head-banging problem, but he only erupted and passionately demanded I leave his classroom. Hmm! I’m thinking obsessive compulsive with maybe a touch of hypomanic episode OR possibly psychomotor agitation! R-e-a-l-l-y concerning, that one!

I was shaken from my diagnosing and the thought I should probably write to check on the old math professor’s mental health when the lady boss, obviously impressed with my answer, confirmed my talent with an impassive nod and then, You’re absolutely correct, Ivan. Cindy fits our requirements... perfectly.

I can’t wait to tell you what’s about to happen and the offer Ms Slacktight has just made me, but for the first time since arriving here at The Truth Advocate, ‘tin fish at home in a concrete fish tank’ doesn’t seem to apply anymore.

Sitting back at my desk and almost beside myself with anticipation, I look to celebrate with someone of equal intellectual standing offering me a congratulatory high-five, but as I peer around for a suitable contemporary among the crowd of envious journalistic simpletons, I digress and consider the only one worthy of my excitement and standing is Freud, my charismatic cat.

I wonder if Professor Holman still needs my help?! Must make a note to look him up and offer him an appointment.

*~*~*~*

I arrived home late to a hungry and very cranky little Freud, who didn’t seem at all interested in my news or high-fiving me after I accidently took the wrong exit off the freeway and ended up 100 kilometres further south than I anticipated. I tried to explain to a bewildered traffic cop the reason I was doing twenty kilometres an hour over the speed limit in a bid to shorten my journey, but he didn’t seem to understand the completely reasonable experiment with Ms Slacktight’s question and my rational conclusion: the faster I drive, the less kilometres I have to travel. After an hour long debate, he conceded to my superior knowledge and sped off when I couldn’t convince his struggling mind of simple math, even when I repeatedly quoted Ms Slacktight and her fantastic logic... must remember to look up 'airhead'. Although the officer was polite, it’s no wonder the crime rate is so high if the state continues to employ people with little or no common sense and an easily fractured patience. I did offer him an exceptional rate on anger therapy sessions, but he said he’d had all the therapy he needed in the last hour. The strange people you meet! Oh well, I did try to help him.

Although, after tonight’s ordeal, it does worry me that my estimate to Ms Slacktight may have been a little ‘out’ and that my stated calculation of 752 kilometres could’ve been slightly overemphasised. Being classified via the ancient personality types, I’m a melancholy/phlegmatic with a healthy touch of sanguine/choleric and via this unique gifting, I like to err on the side of caution and add a little more than less.

Of course...! Why didn’t I think of it before?!

It all makes perfect sense when you look at it logically, people. I’ll have my mechanic check my speedometer and I’m sure the discrepancy will disappear and that will prove to be the whole matter explained. ‘Tin fish at home in a concrete fish tank?!’ No, no, no!

*~*~*~*

Chapter 4

It really irks me that after my stressful ordeal with the policeman and having to explain a logical experiment to a less than savvy official, Freud has been giving me the cold shoulder ever since I arrived home late. He refuses to understand the weight of opportunity and the implications for my career of this once-in-a-lifetime chance, interested only in filling his belly and then a self-ingratiating smooch. I really thought he would take the news a lot differently—more maturely—and be excited for me, but no, all he can see is going to Grandma’s for a few days and that displeased his lordship no end. It didn’t make any difference that I have no choice in the matter, and when I tried to explain this very simple point, he climbed down off my lap in a huff and turned in a circle before settling on the other end of the lounge... MEN! Augh!

Just to annoy him and get back at him, I added a new dimension to his sulk. Hah! I changed the TV channel from our favourite show, Doctor Phil, and put on Oprah Winfrey. As expected, he jumped down off the lounge and ran belly-aching all the way to our bedroom. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d be suspecting a severe case of ADHD and prescribing a course of guanfacine... on top of Oprah Winfrey! However, because it’s getting late and the drugstore is most probably closed, in lieu of this intelligent diagnosis, I’ve decided instead: he can sleep on the lounge tonight.

See how he likes that!

Even so, I feel really hurt and upset now! The shine has gone off the long anticipated possibility of breaking into the big-time news scene and making a name for myself. Does he care? He can only see things from his point of view and the supposed gigantic sacrifice he’ll have to make! What about me and my sacrifices and the turmoil he’s creating inside me? I hope he’s satisfied!

My disgruntled attention drifts away from the TV and to the bedroom where a strange noise chimes out from the dark space, puzzling me. Grasping my dressing gown pocket to check for my phone, I suddenly realise I’ve left it in the room he’s in and that a text message may have just come in. Either that or that rat, Freud, is sending a message! Would be just like him to have someone else on the side!

Don’t tell him, but I’d had about as much of Oprah Winfrey as I could possibly stomach anyway, and the distraction gave me a valid reason to abandon the painful show without loss of face and the fact I was punishing him by pretending I was thoroughly enthralled! Seems I always have to be the adult around here and back down when a disagreement occurs, but I don’t get many messages and the curiosity was killing me. Who would be trying to contact me at this late hour? I’d better go and see. It could be someone needing my professional counselling skills. Maybe... Professor Holman has tuned into my psychological thought suggestions and has been convinced he needs my help after all!

Wriggling out of the lounge chair and quietly sneaking over to our room in the hope of catching Freud in some deviant act, I slowly peer around the bedroom