But there is only so far a woman can go before she becomes irritable in the conduct of these affairs, and I find that the limit of my tolerance for conspiratorial pissing about is reached in the moment when I am forced, by the presence of some bad suffocating spirit, to stake claim with my name and soul to a priceless relic and false miracle either sanctified by the holy murder of its most recent owner or thus defiled into a charnel house which among other things may be the earthly dwelling of that same evil angel that did him in. That sort of thing, as it transpires—because who knows that about themselves until the moment of testing?—gets right up my nose.