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become acute. You know my housekeeper, Miss MacNish? About four weeks ago – I remember distinctly, it was the afternoon of the students’ May ball – she imported into her flat a couple of stray cats. They are a pair of highly unprepossessing animals. One is grey and thin, the other black and fat. I suspect they suffer from the mange and similar feline ailments. At first I had only a vague uneasiness in the presence of these disgusting beasts–’
    Sir Lancelot paused, unable to suppress a shiver. ‘The condition has steadily grown worse. Yesterday morning I suffered complete demoralization when I discovered one asleep behind the heated towel-rail as I left my bath. I can understand perfectly well how they made Napoleon feel about as imperial as a fruit jelly. They get all over my house, of course. Cats are completely impossible animals to confine. I anyway only have to imagine one is in the room, to suffer symptoms of the most painful anxiety. Well, Bonaccord? What’s to be done about it?’
    ‘This is of course part of the obsessional symptomatology–’
    ‘I pray you not to beguile me with the delightfully exculpatory theories of Freud.’
    ‘Well, how about tranquillizers?’
    ‘For me or the cats?’
    ‘Or wouldn’t it be simpler just to change your housekeeper?’
    ‘My dear man! Do you imagine I am going to deprive myself of the best cook in London? I am not a glutton, but a man of my age and respectability is sadly restricted in his choice of indulgences.’
    ‘We could try some transference therapy. Excellent results have been reported recently in the journals, by bringing patients under the influence of hypnosis or sodium amytal right up against the feared objects – cats, goldfish, bus-conductresses or whatever.’ Sir Lancelot continued to look bleakly unenthusiastic. ‘Though with a man of your well-integrated personality we could move more simply. You must simply engender feelings of tenderness towards the cats. Stroke them. Pet them. Offer them saucers of milk.’
    ‘I could no more bring myself to touch one of those monsters than to pet a hyena with rabies.’
    Dr Bonaccord looked pained again. As he had anticipated, the consultation was a trying one. ‘May I finish? You can achieve this quite simply by telling yourself they are not cats at all.’
    ‘What are they, then? Leprechauns in fur coats?’
    ‘Babies. Human babies.’
    Sir Lancelot’s expression was doubtful. ‘I am not particularly fond of babies.’
    ‘Nevertheless, you’ll find it works. I can absolutely guarantee it. Next time you see one of those cats, say to yourself, “What a bonnie, dear baby! I must tickle its little tum-tum.” You’ll be surprised how different you feel at once. We have no fear of the young of our own species.’
    Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘Worth a try, I suppose.’
    ‘Most certainly. I’ve had very good results with people like yourself, who are stuck in the anal stage–’
    ‘Kindly do not be disgusting.’
    ‘I am using the term in its psychological sense,’ said Dr Bonaccord quickly. ‘The preoccupation with the nipple–’
    He broke off, with a sharp intake of breath. Sir Lancelot looked round in concern, to see him white-faced, clutching his middle. ‘I say, Bonaccord, are you all right? Or have you got this cat thing, too?’
    ‘Just…just my heartburn. It often comes on when I’m suffering psychological strain.’
    ‘Oh?’ Sir Lancelot abruptly stood up. ‘And how long have you been having that?’
    ‘The last few weeks. It’s nothing serious.’
    ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Park yourself in this chair. I’ll take a look at it.’
    ‘You really needn’t trouble–’
    ‘Come along, man! You don’t want to perforate a duodenal ulcer in the middle of a psychoanalysis, do you?’ More reluctant patients than Dr Bonaccord had quailed under the command of Sir Lancelot’s eye. He submissively lay on the chair, undoing the waistband of his trousers. Sir Lancelot