So, after an absence of several days, Adam turns up at the office to watch Doctor Who.
Our last phone conversation went like this.
ADAM: Darling! Someone's just broken a capsule of K under my nose. They're a bad, bad, bad bad man.... Goodbye!
So where had he been? Apparently, cooking up K in a flat for days on end with two Ketamine dealers and a flyer boy.
He settled down to watch Strictly Dance Fever, and suddenly stiffened when a pretty dancer shimmied on screen. "Oh! My! God!" he roared. He went quiet for a few seconds. "Smashing body, great kisser... a terrible shag."
Adam leaned in close to the screen. "Oh! He's looking nervous. Wow. This means he's got a facial expression other than pout. Good."
Pretty Boy Dancer got through to the next round. "You could sell your story," I suggested to Adam.
He glared at me, "For that thing? Perlease, I'd be at the end of a very long line."