BIFFIELD: Don’t let them get me!
THERAPIST: You’re perfectly safe, Mr Biffield. Lie back on my couch and relax.
BIFFIELD: But I’m NOT safe…
THERAPIST: My receptionist will bring you some green tea.
BIFFIELD: No! Keep her away from me. She’s sure to be one of them.
THERAPIST: Okay. Just the two of us, then.
BIFFIELD: Lock the door. Quickly!
THERAPIST: That isn’t necessary. You’re clearly suffering from some kind of persecution complex. Let’s talk it through quietly.
BIFFIELD: There’s no escaping them. Dark glasses don’t help. A beanie hat fools nobody. Should I try a false beard?
THERAPIST: WHO do you imagine is after you, Mr Biffield? The Russians? MI6 agents? Aliens?
BIFFIELD: The bastards always look innocent. Bin men. Double glazing salesmen. Pizza delivery guys. Yummy Mummies in the Waitrose queue. It’s a massive conspiracy.
THERAPIST: Why on earth would these people be after you, Mr Biffield?=
BIFFIELD: Because… Oh, God. I can’t take any more. Even my wife…
HERAPIST: Your wife?
BIFFIELD: My EX-WIFE. The evidence was on her computer. She plotted to entrap me. I never even suspected. NEVER!
THERAPIST: You’re having a panic attack. Try deep breaths…
BIFFIELD: Discovering she was like all the rest. (SOBS) That was what finally broke me.
THERAPIST: But who ARE these people?
BIFFIELD: WRITERS, man! Aspiring bloody WRITERS! They HOUND me. Night and day.
THERAPIST: Writers HOUND you…but why? Unless… You don’t mean you’re…
BIFFIELD: A literary agent? YES, I am.
THERAPIST: Wow. Now I understand.
BIFFIELD: At the beginning of my career I enjoyed work. Loved having envelopes rammed through my letterbox at midnight, handwritten in purple ink and secured with knicker elastic. Book proposals thrust at my poor cleaning lady. But now…
THERAPIST: I feel your pain Mr Biffield. The quest for another Harry Potter must be challenging.
BIFFIELD: …these days switching on my computer unleashes a sunami of synopses that are total gibberish. Chapters heaving with adverbs and split infinities. Letters insisting that absolute drivel will sell millions of copies.
THERAPIST: You must have suffered terribly. Fortunately, I believe I have the cure in my desk drawer.
BIFFIELD: Happy pills? I’ve swallowed them like a kid with Smarties. Useless.
THERAPIST: Far better than that. A two-million-word trilogy about a voluptuous female vampire who is desperately in love with her handsome psychiatrist. My mother swears it’s a masterpiece…