Sophie Ellis-Bextor: Dear Lord, where have you been?

William Shakespeare: Nowhere.

Ellis-Bextor: What do you mean, nowhere? Where have you been?

Shakespeare: Ah, you know.

Ellis-Bextor: What? No, I don’t know. You’ve been gone months. Where the hell have you been all this time? Do you not think I’ve been worried?

Shakespeare: Look, just leave me alone, okay. Stop going on at me.

Ellis-Bextor: Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve been at my wit’s end.

Shakespeare: Have you?

Ellis-Bextor: Of course I have.

Shakespeare: At your wit’s end?

Ellis-Bextor: Yes.

Shakespeare: How have you coped? Have you had to seek solace?

Ellis-Bextor: Well I haven’t coped.

Shakespeare: You haven’t sought solace then? You haven’t sought solace at this time of distress?

Ellis-Bextor: What are you going on about?

Shakespeare: Solace. I’m talking about solace. Have you sought solace?

Ellis-Bextor: Sought solace?

Shakespeare: Jesus Christ, do I have to fucking spell it out to you? Have you sought solace in the form of the oversized testicles of gravelly-voiced Middesbrough guitarist, Chris Rea?

Ellis-Bextor: Oh not this again. Does nothing ever change? Months and months and this is all I get?

Shakespeare: You might get more.

Ellis-Bextor: I won’t get more.