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All little boys have an imaginary friend, don’t they? And all writers have a muse. I combine the two in one person. She’s about two feet tall, has silver hair, pointy ears, a long frock and an Irish accent. Although I’m sure she’s very old, she looks about twelve. Twelve-year-old girls are such fearsome creatures, aren’t they? They’re so assertive at that age. I think that’s why she chooses to appear that way. She sits on my desk, dangling her legs over the edge, and nags me.

‘Write a blog post, Jeffrey.’

‘I can’t. I’m tired.’

‘Tired, is it? How can you be tired? You’ve done f**k all today.’

‘That’s because I’ve been tired all day.’

‘Pish. Think of something.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m tired. My eyes feel sore.’

‘You don’t write with your eyes, ya lazy pile of shite. You’ve a brain in there somewhere, don’t ya?’

‘It’s switched off.’

‘Switched off indeed! C’mon now, say something interesting.’

‘Something interesting.’

‘Spare me the oldest joke in the book, Jeffrey. Are you going to write something, or what? I could always take meself off and find another writer.’

‘OK, OK. How would it be if I told them about you?’

‘No jokes, now?’

‘No.’

‘No pretending I’m just a figment of your fevered imagination?’

‘Promise.’

‘That’ll do, then. Get on with it.’

And so I did. She nags me all the time you know. ‘Do this, Jeffrey.’ ‘Do that, Jeffrey.’ ‘Leave some o’ that scotch for me, Jeffrey.’ ‘You can go to bed now, Jeffrey.’

I read recently that the psychology profession has decided that having an imaginary friend is a good thing. I’m sure it is. It’s the real ones that are the problem.