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sweeping generalisations and probed her as deeply as she did him, luxuriating in her robust responses.
    Later, at his apartment, (no one was more stunned than he) he winced as she pronounced his first stumbling song as ‘sentimental horseshit.’ It took a good deal of persuasion to get him to perform a second, which also didn’t meet with much approval. The third hit the spot. Her mood softened. “Now that’s what I was expecting,” she said quietly. That they’d made love that night surprised him. That his ministrations were so obviously and so utterly appreciated delighted him. He’d never seen anyone so comprehensively satisfied. In turn she was urgent and creative, shocking and thrilling him with equal measure with her outrageous sensuality.
    The next five days were a blur. In between falling totally and deeply in love he attended meetings with music and literary agents arranged through her connections. His poetry was received with embarrassing enthusiasm and music companies seemed to be queuing up for his songs. Every moment he spent with her was a revelation, every night a voyage of discovery. Life was suddenly good and he was pleased to see that she revelled in every moment with him.
    The woman smiled at her counsellor. “Yes, it was everything you promised. It was well worth the money.”
    “You’ll be doing it again?” enquired the counsellor.
    “You betcha,” confirmed the woman. “It’s just wonderful to feel so needed.”
    The counsellor looked across the pristine uncluttered surface of her desk. She tapped rapidly on a touch sensitive screen in front of her and studied the data carefully then offered, “You put most of this together yourself didn’t you? Well done. Most of our first timers take advantage of our consulting services to help construct a play scenario. Are you sure you want out now?”
    The woman laughed. “I’m not made of cash you know.”
    Smiling, the counsellor fixed her with a steady gaze. “Are you going to tell him? We always recommend that you don’t. Sometimes the guilt can have an adverse effect. It’s best to let us handle matters.”
    The woman thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s probably best that way,” she murmured.
    “Don’t worry,” said the counsellor, standing up and walking over to her. “It’s company policy.” She started to remove the electrodes from the woman’s shaven head. “We always dispose of our client’s sentient creations humanely.”
    - The End -

A WORK OF QUALITY
     
    The editor looked at his watch with relish. Seven minutes to go. Seven minutes before he had to put up with that vile little man for the last time. That man whose very presence offended his sensibilities so deeply he felt the need to shower after their encounters.
    He was going to cut him from the list and he was going to enjoy doing it. He’d not graduated a first in the classics at Oxford in order to read the wretched outpourings of a prurient scribbler. Writing was, after all, the great pursuit. It was an elegant and creative endeavour undertaken by conscientious and eclectic thinkers. People who wove their stories with skill and precision, artistes who played with language as a composer conducted an orchestra. Not that he wrote himself of course. He was an editor. His effete mind and intellectual snobbery persuaded him that he was able to critique that which he was unprepared to attempt himself. After all, he consoled himself, someone had to be the guardian at the gate. Someone had to ensure quality and high standards. And of course he did understood high standards. His lecturers had taught him well. He understood their exacting assessments and now their standards were his. He could accept no less.
    Sadly, employment within the world of publishing was not the foregone conclusion he’d anticipated. After graduation he was astonished to have had to undergo the embarrassment of protracted interviews by individuals who were inferior to him in every way. And, they