One evening when Véronique was out I swallowed a bottle of Largactyl. Gripped by panic, I called the emergency services straightaway. They had to take me to hospital, give me a stomach pump, etc. In fine, I only just made it. That bastard (what else can you call her?) didn’t even come and see me in hospital. On getting back ‘home’, if it can be called that, all she managed to find as words of welcome was that I was an egoist and a flake; her interpretation of the incident was that I was contriving to cause her extra worry, she ‘who already had enough on her plate with problems at work.’ The
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