I hate you, Mother. Hate you, hate you, hate you. Have you ever wondered why your beloved Pomeranian, Chi-Chi, died? The filthy little thing! I recall that it succumbed to a painful internal ailment after eating some truffles you gave it. Oh, deary me! Was it really the truffles? Or was it...something else? Something in the truffles? Well, we'll never know, shall we? Do you know, Mother, that I keep a picture of you in my wallet at all times? It's one that shows off your lacquered hair to excellent advantage, what with the blue tinting and all. Oh, yes, indeed, it's right there next to the picture of the Boston Strangler. I sometimes study them both carefully in the light of the waning moon and ponder the vagaries of fate. Why was I born to a complete bitch? It's a mystery. Perhaps I am being punished for the sins of a previous existence. Perhaps God is a sadistic pervert and is playing a cruel joke on all of us.

I would invite you to my humble flat in Soho, Mother, but I know you couldn't bear to see your son living in such poor accomodations, especially since there are no original oils by any of the Masters on the walls or any of those dreadful Victorian china romantic figures that you adore so. You know, the little shepherd boys and the ballerinas with the frilly dresses?

Do sleep well tonight, Mother dear, and be sure that all the windows and doors are locked tight because we wouldn't want any criminals or axe murderers to get in now, would we! Goodness no.