On the phone.

In Chinese.

Hmm.

Charles has skills. And Wang Shu – who can smell class a mile off, principally because she has very little of it herself, and very little need of it herself, in fact despises it, for the most part – is the woman best served to exploit those skills of his.

Yikes.

Although this will probably be good for Charles, in the long run.

Although the above sentence is entirely predicated on what ‘good for Charles’ actually means. The phrase is relative.

‘Good for Charles’ from Wang Shu’s perspective. Not necessarily ‘good for Charles’ from Charles’s perspective.

Charles doesn’t really know what’s ‘good for him’, though. Some things Charles thinks are good for him aren’t good for him at all. And some things that Wang Shu thinks are ‘good for him’ won’t be good for him, either.

If only Richard Grannon were here to sort this stuff out.

But he isn’t here (he can’t be), because at this precise moment in time he is probably addressing a symposium in Latvia on narcissistic abuse, or standing – breathing deeply – on a pristine beach in Ibiza and posting a photo of it on Instagram to his ten zillion followers before being interviewed by an improbably attractive brunette on a local news programme in Spanish.

Richard Grannon doesn’t think that people are simply entitled to be happy. But he does think that people are entitled to fight (tooth and claw) to live their happiest, their most productive and their most authentic lives.

To be Sovereign.

To be present, positive and boundaried.

The happiest people are generally those who are willing to be flexible.

And to compromise.

Richard Grannon says that you need to ‘kick the legs out from under negative beliefs by dint of critical thinking’.

It’s all about taking a quick step back, drawing a deep breath, and gently telling yourself, ‘Okay, so this feels pretty bad as things currently stand, but why not take a moment to try and focus on what is actually right about this situation?’

Of course this is just so much hot air to Wang Shu who doesn’t really have time to think about how she is feeling or how anyone else is feeling, least of all Charles.

Wang Shu likes a man who can do his own washing, though.

And Charles is tidy. A tidy hoarder.

Although in actual fact Charles isn’t really a hoarder, but is simply a hoarder for the benefit of this narrative.

Okay. Don’t freak out.

He really is a hoarder.

Honest.

Charles hoards.

He has been hoarding his feelings, too. Storing them away in giant, impermeable vats and never actually feeling them.

Poor Charles.

Charles needs to prise open the cardboard box of his emotions (or the impermeable vat of his emotions – you choose) and check out what’s inside.

Ouch!

Feel it.

Writhe around for a while, sobbing, plaintively.

Punch the walls.

Then repair the walls (because Wang Shu now owns the house and he doesn’t want to incur her formidable wrath).