This morning, dear Reader, I surveyed my oak-lined rooms and thought, il me manque quelque chose.
This is why I found myself silently opening the door of my colleague Dr Fflloyd’s office a few minutes later.
I fingered the fabric of Dr Fflloyd’s smoking jacket, dear Reader, as I noiselessly pushed the door to behind me. I slipped the notepad marked ‘DSM VI – A New Way Forward?’ out of the breast pocket, tossed it into the wastepaper basket, and replaced it with my set of all-purpose skeleton keys.
Now that I was wearing something more comfortable, I turned back to face the room.
There, guarded by a phrenology head at one end and a oiuja board at the other, lay the object of my desire, covered in a silk throw.
I approached. My heart pounded.
I lifted the throw.
There lay Dr Fflloyd, dear Reader, a pair of knitting needles quivering in his lifeless chest.
I pushed him to the floor, seized two legs, and carefully walked backwards, leaving only the faintest of scratch marks along the parquet.
As I paused for breath by Dr Fflloyd’s trophy cabinet, my glance fell on the cups marked Vienna, All-World Pyschotherapeutic Championships, 1961, 1962, and 1964.
But where 1963 should have been, dear Reader, there was a round area, perfectly clear of dust!
I could not pause to ponder the significance of this absence, as the sirens in the distance were getting louder.
Happily, I made it back to my own oak-lined rooms.
Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that Sigmund’s chaise longue goes perfectly with my Egret and Hibiscus pattern wallpaper (circa 1770), and that there is no longer an indefinable lack.