A Visit from Pumpherston

Yesterday, a female knocked at my door. I was understandably wary of her, but allowed her to gain access to my home. She was dressed in trousers, of the type worn by males, but was clearly a person of the female gender. I deduced that she must be one of those feminist characters who throw themselves under horses and break windows with toffee hammers. I frantically tried to remember my lessons on modern political correctness and sexual equality, and decided that my initial impulse to offer her a cup of tea might be construed as demeaning, so I adopted an air of surly disinterest and periodically flicked her earlobe.

She introduced herself as Miss K. L. Pumpherston, and announced that she was a psychiatrist sent by my friend Dr Anthony Gland to make sure that I was okay. Evidently Gland had read my electronic diary and feared that I was delusional and was putting my life at risk. I patiently explained that I am imbued with multiple lives, an assertion of which she strove hard to dissuade me.

I am afraid I alarmed her when I offered to demonstrate my immunity to death by hanging myself. She was not interested in such a display and indicated that she would arrange to have me sectioned under the Mental Health Act if I continued. She was a tolerable female, and stayed to watch Neighbours with me, but she would not believe my claim. I had to promise not to kill myself anymore before she would be satisfied.

After she left I hung myself, then drank some bleach. Tremendous fun! I have now concluded that the numbers on the bathroom mirror are a life-tally, for after these two recent deaths, it has become "21".