b). Kaffe walks into a bar with a laptop. She says, “A prosecco for me and one for my giraffe.” And they stand around drinking for hours until the giraffe passes out on the floor. Kaffe pays the tab and gets up to leave. The bartender says, “Hey! You’re not going to leave that giraffe on the floor, are you?” Kaffe says, “That’s not a giraffe, it’s a laptop.”

c). A kaffe, a kaffe and a kaffe walk into a cafe. The bartender says, “What is this, some kind of kaffe?

d). Kaffe walks into a cafe, sits down, and orders a prosecco. As she sips the prosecco, she hears a voice say, “Nice installation.” Looking around, she sees that the cafe is empty except for her and the bartender. A few sips later, another voice says, “Beautiful laptop.” At this, kaffe orders the bartender over. “Look, I must be losing my mind,” she tells him. “I keep hearing these voices say nice things, and there is not a soul in here but us.” “It’s the chopped nuts,” explains the bartender, indicating a dish on the bar. “The chopped nuts?”, asks Kaffe. “That’s right, the chopped nuts — they’re complementary”.

e). Kaffe walks into a cafe looking sad. The bartender slaps her hard across the face, pushes her up against the wall and asks her, “What’s the matter, bitch?” Kaffe says, “My tree sprite that inhabits an old 30’s wooden tennis racket and I had a fight, and she told me she wasn’t going to speak to me for a year. The year is up today.”

Gunnar Mads Reiderson. What a crazy name! Can you believe the ‘Mads’ part is for real – check if you like. It’s on the Norwegian official state register of permitted baby names.

But any difficulty with my feminist improv peers I can handle easily. The real problem, as any of you daring improv girls who’ve ridden in the saddle will know, is that evil phenomenon known as ‘Helmet Hair’. Wind whipping through your hair as you ride causes no end of nightmares. Split ends. Breakages, frazzles and tangles. Dry lifeless riah devoid of any bounce – these are the problems facing any female improviser who regularly rides pillion. The only solutions are a Sinead O’Conartist crop – yeuuuuuch! – or become one of those simply dreadful Goth girls whose hair resembles a bucketful of black slime seeking a swift passage back to the sewers.

Thankfully, I’m not dependent on Gunnar or that huge vibrating machine of his to get from A to B and back again. I have my dinky open top sporty Mazda. I’ve challenged Gunnar to a little road race when he feels up to it but so far he’s pooh-poohed the idea. Obviously, he’s worked out that he has nothing to gain by beating me but everything to lose by losing. I’d die to see the faces of his death metal buddy-buds as I regaled them with how my sleek girly powder blue Mazda beat his throbbing black racer into second best. PING!

Our Kaffe is simply a genius