Same as Miss Hahn herself, I suppose. And if I think back I recall Miss Hahn confessing as much in the sauna that day. Drawing a comparison between us both. But at the time I hadn’t … I was just too caught up in … in I’m not sure what. In proving myself to be above it all. Maintaining a measure of professional distance.

It was at this point, anyhow, that Miss Hahn lifted her face from the coat and demanded to know who it was that had entrusted the damn thing to me. Her tone was disparaging, almost aggressive. I was slightly taken aback. I’d been happily spilling out my guts to this incorrigible female – this veritable banshee – and now here I was being cross-examined on every conceivable detail pertaining to its bizarre acquisition. Either way, shoving aside my (considerable, and utterly valid) misgivings, I set about trying to explain (in plain English, although this language didn’t entirely seem to suit my explanations) how it had all come about. And as I explained it I became – perhaps it was her combative style of questioning that injured my feelings, or the cynical mutterings of the imaginary Miss Hahn in my head – but as I explained it I became increasingly infuriated. Just the look of contempt in her eyes. And of betrayal (I didn’t ask Miss Hahn to have any confidence in me, did I? Quite the opposite, in fact!). But it was mainly the hurt – the crushing sense of disappointment. They rankled with me. They stung.

So I headed into the house. I fled. Well, I staggered. With Miss Hahn still in hot pursuit, haranguing me about the coat, explaining its history and its significance and its endless virtues in considerable (nay, interminable) detail.

By the time I’d reached the living room I was spent (physically, emotionally). I turned to face her again, panting, exhausted, perfectly willing to concede defeat.

The hunter, hunted! The imaginary Miss Hahn chuckled. And she was right. The imaginary Miss Hahn had put her imaginary finger on it. Yet again.

‘What do you want from me, Miss Hahn?’ I asked the real Miss Hahn. It was a kind of … a kind of … a tortured appeal. Because I didn’t know what I could conceivably give. And if Miss Hahn would only … just tell me, then we might be able to negotiate some basic parameters. We might even be able to … to bring about some kind of … of a rapprochement between us.

‘What do you want from me, Miss Hahn?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered.

But I wasn’t sure if I entirely believed her. I think she did know. I think there was something. Something she wanted. But she wouldn’t allow herself to confess to it. And then she just … she just started talking about the damn coat again and pointing out all these tiny ‘messages’ embedded into the skin of it.

‘This is a four and a nought and a … this is a leaf … this is a rabbit …’ etc. etc.