I hear Dr. Robinson from a way off. She wears the shoes of a tap dancer. I haven’t made up my mind about her yet. I have only seen her once. Dr. Twat introduced her to me in an awed silence so I presume she must be a high-flyer in the world of Quackdom. I am not sure how much I like the idea of being forensically examined. That’s her title: forensic psychiatrist, which sounds frightfully swanky – though she most definitely is not. In fact, there’s something rather invisible about her. Dr. Robinson has a soothing, knowing, professional voice that she has probably spent years perfecting; it’s all a bit too perfect. She is spruce and clean-looking; her clothes are expensive but deathly dull, unlikely to attract attention of any sort. Only her shoes have an attitude; they let you know she’s coming. Today, as she walks into the room, I notice a bit of bird shit or porridge on her right toe tip.

She is here to help me, so she said last time, to get to the root of it all. I did some forensic examining of my own and caught sight of her travel pass: she lives in north London where the rumour is that there are more therapists than nutjobs. So, really, if you look at it, I’m the one doing her a frigging favour with her slatted blinds and her kitchen island and her Pouilly-Fumé cooling in the fridge.

She smiles at me. Not a real smile, a professional smile. She has trained herself to enjoy eye contact. She thinks she’s good at it, but no one can out-loony a loony. Besides, I have all the time in the world.

Everything about Dr. Robinson is both intense and measured. She is a serious person. Nothing tumbles out by surprise. I appreciate that, having once been a tumbler myself. She has dark, glossy hair cut in a longish bob that slips out from behind her ear; the gesture with which she tries to correct this has become punctuation for her methodical thinking. I see. Hair back in place. And what do you think – hair back in place – she meant by that? Hair back in place.

As she takes off her jacket at that leisurely pace of hers, I get a waft of menthol cigarette, or it could be a mint trying to cover the smell of a normal cigarette.

It’s a weakness, smoking.

I’d rather my forensic psychiatrist didn’t have such obvious weaknesses.