'I want to be upgraded', says my Imaginary Friend.
'What to?', I ask, not unkindly. I had been expecting this.
'To a 37-year-old 6ft6in ex-rugby player with a crush on you.'
'I happen to know one of those', I muse, trying to gain time.
'Yes. I could become 'Mr Nice'. And buy you real dinners, take you to real places, and like you for real.'
'You cannot be promoted, my friend', I say, sadly.
'Why on earth not?' There is a note of disappointment in his voice.
'Because I cannot upgrade you on anger alone. It's got to be on merits.'
'I'll work hard at it.'
