he men in white coats arrive almost immediately to take you away. You go without a struggle. When you arrive at the doctor’s office they strap you to a chair and leave you there. You can hear them talking outside, though. ‘What’s wrong with this one?’ someone asks.

‘A complete nutcase,’ they answer. ‘Like, we’re talking total loony here. We’re talking not just out of the tree but out of the entire forest.’

‘And so young,’ the first person says. ‘It’s tragic, really. Obviously destroyed by drugs.’

‘Drugs!’ you think. ‘Drugs! You’ve got to be kidding!’ The strongest drug you’ve ever had was Milo. Do these people seriously think you’ve been sniffing Milo? Shooting up on Milo?

Then the doctor comes in. He’s a little guy with frizzy hair, poppy eyes and a beard that looks like an undernourished pot plant. His hands are shaking; in fact he’s trembling all over with excitement.

‘So!’ he hisses. ‘What have we here? Very interesting! Obviously a severe psychotic delusional hyperalienation specimen. Now, who do you think you are? Michael Jackson? Lisa Simpson? The Shroud of Turin? Who?’

‘Shouldn’t that be “whom”?’ you ask.

‘Hah!’ he says. ‘Post-prandial neuro-aggressive pedantry! Fascinating! Tell me, how would you like to stay here a very long time? We have nice rooms, excellent recreational facilities, good food, and all you have to do is talk about yourself for hours every day. Would you like that?’

‘Would I have to go to school?’ you ask.

‘Oh no,’ he says, obviously shocked. ‘Certainly not. You’re far too ill for that.’

So you accept his invitation and spend a long and happy holiday in his institution. Gee, why wouldn’t you be happy? After all, the first friends you make there are Superman, Princess Diana and the Prime Minister of Australia. Well, at least, that’s who they say they are. And they wouldn’t be wrong about something as important as that . . . would they?