Psychology. Not just a science but an art, in my humble opinion.

Those so gifted as to understand the intricate workings of the complex and volatile human psyche deserve nothing less than a medal.

For they are gifted individuals with the tools and knowledge to decipher my beautiful, yet eccentric, mind.

“You’re just jealous ’cos she’s taller than you,” my psychologist told me.

“Isn’t it something to do with my insecurities? She embodies everything I strive to be?” I queried.

“Nope. You’re what in the world of psychology we call ‘stubby’.

“You’re jealous because she’s over 5ft tall.

“You’re jealous and you make catty remarks about others to make yourself feel better.

“Just stop saving up to have metal rods put in your legs and be nice!”

I couldn’t help but feel I’d just been conned out of £60 an hour. I was hoping to have my mind probed and my evil deeds justified through the teachings of Jung, but no.

“I’m not mean, am I?” I quizzed my dog when I got home, clutching several boxes of Kalms.

She looked at me for a second, then slowly turned her back. That said it all.

To calm my allegedly mean self down I ran myself a long, hot bath.

Shortly after, the phone rang and my friend with the bad hair and the boyfriend with yellow teeth asked me to come over.

A few of the guys were having a pizza/Sambuca night and they wanted me to drop by with my PS4.

Seeing as though this was going to be a sleep-where-you-pass-out affair, I drove around to her house in my jammies and slippers.

It wasn’t long before the drinks were flowing and I was wandering around with shot glasses down my top doing Madonna impressions.

Everyone laughed at my antics, though thanks to a mixture of Kalms and what I suspect was gin, I found myself questioning whether they were laughing with or at me.

I went on the defensive and started poking fun at my company.

“Your teeth taking up bouncing?” I asked me mate’s boyfriend. “Because they’re wearing little high-vis jackets.”

There were a few laughs and I smiled while covering my own fagstained monstrosities with a chubby hand.

I am ashamed to say as I continued to pour alcohol into my throat, it made more room in my body by ejecting any tiny amounts of empathy I had left.

The insults were flying. Maybe the psych was right, I did feel better putting others down.

Maybe highlighting the perceived faults of others was detracting from me feeling like the lovechild of Danny DeVito and Chucky?

I was having such a good time that I decided to kick off my slippers and continue with the tirade of superficial insults from a more relaxed position on the sofa – splayed out like a starfish.

“What’s that stench?” someone balked.

A lot of sniffing ensued and it soon hit me – I was one of those people with permanently stinky slippers.

Despite having a bath, I’d restunk the trotters and now everyone was having their revenge.

“What’s the matter, this time?” the psych asked the following week. You wandered into a primary school and were mistaken for a child?”

So much for being nice.