Dr Chasuble

A while Gwen asked her therapist, Chasuble, to come stay with us in Hertfordshire.

He seems rather a nice man, rather dull in that domesticated city-type persona, but none too harmful. Gwen seems more at ease, now.

I must admit though that I find his way of conducting therapy sessions, over Skype, rather unsettling, but as armchair detectives are a staple of detective fiction, I expect the equivalent must also be true for therapists in real life, seeing as there isn't such a thing as therapist fiction. Not really and not without being of a less widely accepted nature, in any case.

I've taken to calling myself Emma in private, but I assure you my intentions with regard to cultivating a friendship between Chasuble and Prism are nowhere so manipulative. But Mr Prism has been dead for years now, and yet she still is not over him - who better to help her than a therapist. I suggested so to her, that she talk to Chasuble about it. Seeing as he is present and all anyway. And Dr Chasuble's wife, as far as I have discerned, is non-existent. I have suggested to Dr Chasuble he take tea with Prism rather than with us, seeing as neither Gwen's nor my tea-making skills are particularly legendary. He tried to suggest something about servants, but I wouldn't hear of it - besides, she is much better at conversing than either of us.

And what good is a domesticated person without a partner to keep them properly domesticated?

Now, on other business - ALGERNON.

What sort of name is Algernon? Or Algy, for short, perhaps - I might as well call him algae, although perhaps that isn't particularly creative, no matter how much he deserves it.

But just you wait, Algy Moncrieff - you'll be sorry, but your tears will be too late. You'll be left, and I'll have Ernest, and I will say you weren't earnest; just you wait, Algy Moncrieff, just you wait.

Whatever gave you the idea that assuming a false name helps you in affairs of the heart? I only use false names when I buy my lattes...