Last week's lawyer was true to his word, and summoned me to a hotel in the middle of nowhere.
The tax conference seemed as vile as you could imagine, with The Lawyer managing to smuggle me into his room in between seminars.
After we'd tried out the entire bathroom (including shower caps. what the hell are they?), The Lawyer announced he was off for a Working Supper with his tax chums in the restaurant.
"You could always come down to the restaurant on your own, you know. You can distract me."
So I did.
There he sat, at one end of the restaurant surrounded by endless talk about accomplished children, violin lessons, ponies and holiday homes. And, at the other end, I sat reading Vanity Fair and cadging cigarettes off the barman.
I ended up, sat in a wood-panelled lounge in front of a roaring fire, dozing off gently with a pot of coffee, waiting for The Lawyer to finish his meal.
"I feel like a hooker!" I texted a friend in giddy excitement.
"Hookers get paid," came the reply.
Next week, he's visiting a client in Harlech. He'd like me to attend.
Top facts about The Lawyer
#1) He also teaches Karate
#2) He once flew a client's ashes to Iceland.