Mike has a plan.

In the absence of smelling salts, Mike reaches for the little brown bottle that he has stashed away in the secret compartment of his Samsonite Executive Premier Plus Trunk (with built-in Vanity Unit).

"If this doesn't bring the silly old queen to her senses", he mutters, unscrewing the cap and wafting the bottle underneath Peter's nose, "then nothing will."

The housemates hold their breath. Which is just as well, considering the fetid aroma of old socks that is now permeating the bedroom.

"Mmmnnnrrrgh..."

A faint growling noise begins to rise up from the bed, as Peter's face assumes the colour of a particularly fine Chateauneuf Du Pape.

"GLORIA!"

With this keening howl, Peter's body suddenly snaps into an upright position. Wild-eyed and flailing, his howls grow ever louder.

"GLORIA! I THINK THEY'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER! DUH DUH DUH DUH WANTS YOU! WHY ISN'T ANYBODY CALLING! WOOO! DON'T BOGART THE POPPERS, MARY!"

The housemates look at each other in consternation.

"Darling, is he all right?", asks Zoe, anxiously.

Mike smiles, knowingly.

"Laura Branigan. Gloria. Got to Number 6 in December 1982. One of Peter's favourites. She thinks she's back in Fire Island, dancing on a Saturday night. Give her a couple of minutes, and she'll be as right as rain...."