I'd had a troubled night. If only I could've found my new library book, The First Swallow of Spring by Monica Lewinsky, a few paragraphs of that might've sent me off to sleep. But probably not even that would do it this particular night.
I just couldn't put what I'd read in my pocket English dictionary the night before to the back of my mind:
figment of the imagination: a fantastic notion, invention, or fabrication [C15: from Late Latin figmentum, a fiction]
Fantastic, I liked. My fans have always said I was fantastic.
But an invention - a fabrication? Had I really just been invented by an anonymous ad-man to sell some disinfectant?
I had to speak to someone, and I knew who: Dr Rennie, my psychoanalyst...
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