Alan is 64. He's a very famous actor, the best. He's your husband, your kind, insecure, loving husband. He was walking through the streets of London. It was winter, the weather was cold and Alan was freezing even if he had a thick coat on. He was walking deep in thought: maybe it was about his work as an actor, or mostly about his way of seeing himself. He hates himself, he hates his body, his face, he thinks he's bad looking and fat. He hates himself, his voice He signs some autographs, but he's constantly thinking he's ugly and fat