Now, naturally enough, roysh, my first instinct is to tell her to quit her focking babbling and ask what's for dinner, because I'm Hank focking Morvin at this stage.

That's when, totally out of the blue, she turns around and goes, "Get in here, Big Boy, " and I suppose it's then I should have copped there was something NQR about the whole scene.

I push the door of the study.

She's got, like, her back to me and goes, "I've been a baaad girl today . . . come in here, you brute, and punish me, " and suddenly spins around in the old man's chair and there I am, left standing, staring, at my old dear in the total raw . . . and we're talking total raw, with no clothes on, unless of course you count her gold Marc Cain incised pattern scorf as clothes, which I most certainly don't.

She actually focking screams . . .

she screams . . . and I've got my hands over my eyes, going, "Cover it up . . . it's focking revolting, " meaning her body.

She's going, "I thought you were Lance!" as in Lance her agent, as in Lance her new boyfriend, as in Lance the main reason she's left the old man wallowing in his own mess in the Joy.

I'm like, "Just put some focking clothes on, you disgusting old hag, " which she thankfully does. She sort of, like, backs out of the room, covering her various bits and pieces with the scorf.

I feel violated, like I need a focking shower.

I look at the computer. She's still writing the follow-up to that piece of crap she put out last year. Legal Affairs, my focking Swiss. I go to close the file on the screen and it's like, do you want to save the changes to this document? I hit don't save, then I click on the little spotlight thing in the top roysh hand corner and I type the words "legal affairs" and up come the chapters she's finished.

One by one, I delete them, roysh, then I go to the little trash basket in the bottom right hand corner of the screen and and I empty that as well. It's like, how do you like them transparent, dangling carrots?

The next thing, roysh, she's back in the room but with clothes on.

I go, "You're a focking disgrace, you know that? You've a body like a focking walrus and you're not even embarrassed about it?"

Get this, roysh. She goes, "Why are you even here, Ross?" like I'm not entitled to just walk into my own home. I'm there, "Sorcha's focked me out, " and she goes, "Why?" and I'm like, "Are you telling me that birds actually need a reason to do the things they do?"

The next thing, roysh, I hear the front door slam and a voice go, "Where are you, you bad, bad girl?

Daddy's going to punish you?" and I just give her a filthy. She quickly goes, "Lance, Ross is here!" at the top of her voice and when he appears at the door . . . I don't focking believe this . . . he's buttoning his trousers up.

He looks at me and he's like, "What abite ya?" and I'm thinking, he's from Northern Ireland, a focking foreigner.

I'm there, "Eat shit, " which he ignores, roysh, turns around to the old dear and goes, "How's it coming along, Sweethort?"

Sweetheart? I have this focking urge to cut that pony tail off and thrash him to a bloody pulp with it.

The old dear pulls a face. "Slowly, " she goes. "I'm writing this scene wheref Okay, Valerie's in Fallon & Byrne . . . enjoying a Gruyere and sundried tomato tortlet and perhaps a glass of Chateau Jolys Jurancon Sec . . . when she spots a man she recognises as a senior officer in the Criminal Assets Bureau. He's eating alone. I don't know what he's eating yet . . . the chowder in there is wonderful . . .

but he's had a long day and he wants a moment to himself before he goes home to his wife and children in, say, Ranelaghf" Lance is going, "Och, this is gid, " like he'd focking know. It's actually shit. She's there, "Valerie sees her chance. She undoes the top button on her blouse, takes out her compact and checks her teeth for poppy seeds, then frumps up her breastsf" Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lance licking his lips. He's actually getting his jollies listening to this. She goes, "And struts on over there. So Valerie seduces him . . . she always gets what she wants, remember . . . and they take photographs of each other, in various positions and stages of their fevered love-makingf" I'm there, "I can't listen to any more of this shit. My marriage is actually over, just in case you actually give a shit, " and I go out into the hall, roysh, and grab my bags, while she's still going, "Of course Valerie's going to use the photographs to bribe himf" and that dickhead's there, "To get back all the assets that were seized.

Finny, that's geniusf" Finny! For fock's sake!

I drag my bags up the stairs and head for my old room. There's something, I don't know, reassuringly familiar about it, if that doesn't sound too wanky . . . my Kylie calendar, my poster of Dricof I don't know what I was expecting, maybe the old dear to have turned it into a focking S&M parlour, but, no, it's still the samef I throw myself down on the bed, roysh, and I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering should I ring Sorcha or not. I get her number up on my phone, roysh, and I'm about to hit dial but I wuss out. I do the same thing, like, six or seven times.

Then I decide to ring Lyudmila, port of me thinking, I need to find out if that shit Sorcha said was true, roysh, and another port of me thinking, tonight . . . of all nights . . . I need female company. Her mobile rings maybe 10 or 15 times, roysh, and just as I think it's about to go to message-minder, she answers.

She's like, "Hello?" and I'm there, "That did not go down well, it'd be fair to say, " trying to make light of the whole thing.

She's like, "Russ, I so sawry. I make things bed for you and for Sureeka. So tomorrow, I go beck to Belarus, " and I'm there, "What?

Are you yanking my actual chain?"

"I hef to go, Russ. I make so much unhappiness. Yevgeni . . . he luff me, even if he know I am, how to say, crezy womanf" I'm there, "I could call up to your gaff. We could talkf" and she goes, "Russ, is not good idea. I am sawry for break your merridge. I ferry sed for you and for Sureeka. She is nice girl. I not know what heppen in my head sometimesf" and with that, roysh, she just hangs up.

I'm about to ring her back when I hear this, like, high-pitched scream coming from the study downstairs and then all this, I suppose you'd have to say, sobbing.

I walk out onto the landing, roysh, and all I can hear is the old dear, going, "It's gone . . . weeks of work. It must be a virusf" It is . . . you can call me the Trojan Horse.