by Rachel Green
I relax against the soft leather of the chaise-longue, cross my legs at the ankles and lace my fingers together just blow my breasts. Doctor Reuben opens the thin file he's compiled from a brief internet search on my name and pseudonym - I can see the corner of a printout with the distinctive blue edge of the first Harold and Jasfoup painting. My GP has referred me to this man with wire rim glasses and hair bristling out of his nostrils because I have "a tenuous grip on reality." I know this because on my first visit I looked at my file when Doctor Reuben was called to reception. He won't find anything wrong with me; at least, nothing he can quantify, for my responses are always as pitch-perfect as if they were served on a plate. I know exactly what he wants to hear because my two favourite demons are reading his mind.
Rachel Green, whose full catalog is here, is an English woman who spends far too much time writing about demons.