“I tell you, that amok trey’s gone right through me,” said William Shakespeare, rubbing his stomach with concern.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor ignored him, lost in the beauty of Angkor Wat.

Shakespeare tried again: “I say, that amok trey’s gone right through me. I should have just had a baguette or something.”

Still nothing from Ellis-Bextor.

“Are you listening to me?” said the bard, testily.

“What, oh, yes,” said Ellis-Bextor. “It’s just that Angkor Wat is so breathtaking.”

“I’m uncomfortable,” said Shakespeare. “I can’t appreciate Khmer temple architecture properly when I feel like this.”

“It’s that sheer linen collar,” said Ellis-Bextor. “It’s always troubling you in humid climates. I don’t know why you don’t wear something else.”

“It’s not the sheer linen collar,” screamed Shakespeare, lunging towards Ellis-Bextor, flecks of spittle cascading down on her. “It’s the fucking amok trey. I knew you weren’t fucking listening to me, you pallid witch. You never fucking listen.”

“I listen. I listen,” said Ellis-Bextor, cowering.

“You don’t listen. You never listen.” Shakespeare withdrew slightly. “I’m going to have to come up with some way of teaching you to listen.”