I’m stuck here, at home all day with Geoff my disabled husband. Money’s tight.

I’d tried those ads in the Exchange & Mart: addressing envelopes - make a fortune. Ha! Lost loads of money buying stamps, using my own stationary. I’d painted gnomes until I saw them in my sleep, had them crowding surfaces, demonic terracotta dwarf army that induced hysteria in the budgie. So when Angela took me aside at the carers’ coffee morning and told me about her telephone venture I wanted in.

I practised panting and moaning while doing the vacuuming.

My first caller wanted ‘golden stream’, I had to Google it, improvise with a half-filled teapot and the fish tank.

Leo - who became a regular, liked verbal humiliation. I didn’t need to Google that having been married to Geoff for 12 years, it came naturally.

Talking dirty was harder. I’d to turn the wedding photo to face the wall, ‘get rid of my inner repressions,’ as Angela termed my Catholic upbringing. I got rather good at it according to the district nurse.

I can make unzipping noises with my raincoat, ripping sounds with the Velcro from Geoff’s colostomy bag and penetrative noises with half a lemon and the squeezer. High heels: a ballpoint tapped on the glass topped nest of side tables (coasters removed).

People say I look younger, fresher. I want to broaden my horizons so I’ve employed Nadia to look after Geoff.

I’ve sent my C.V to B.B.C Radio Four’s special sound effects department.

Fingers crossed.