I continued to wrestle with the postcard and at last it seems that I have made some progress. My Dictionary of Classical Mythology tells me that the figure in his poem is most likely Prometheus, chained to a rock by a wrathful Zeus for stealing fire from Mount Olympus and giving it to mankind.

But what was the significance of that? Did it mean that Toby Salt himself was being held captive? Was he Prometheus? If so, where was his rock? And who was his jailor? And why on earth wasn’t ‘accipitrine’ an answer in my crossword?

I opened another packet of custard creams in search of further inspiration.

Friday November 23rd

Poem Sequence in E Flat Major

One

word

followed another,

each line augmented,

dressed up, embellished and tormented,

like some poor Chopin polonaise performed by Liberace.

It was only then that I realised my poem had got all Fibonacci.

Twitter tells me it is Fibonacci Day, celebrating that remarkable sequence of numbers that governs the population of bees and the shape of snail shells. I set about Toby Salt’s poem once more in the hope that I might find some inner pattern or sequence to unlock its mystery – if it was a mystery that is, rather than just a sequence of dull, only loosely connected words.

I found myself going around in spirals for the rest of the day.

Saturday November 24th

Stuart had to dash. He was skydiving for Romanian orphans.

‘That’ll be another one ticked off my bucket list!’ he said before proceeding to tell me about a succession of fulfilled dreams, including a journey on the Orient Express, a swim with dolphins and – with more detail than was strictly necessary for a Saturday morning – how he became a member of the Mile High Club.

‘But enough about me! What’s on your bucket list, Brian?!’ he asked.

‘At this moment, kicking it, most probably.’

He paused for a moment to reflect on this and then burst out laughing.

‘Oh, Brian! Don’t ever lose your wicked sense of humour!’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Anyway, gotta run – or should I say jump!’

Mercifully, he bounded off, and Dylan and I sought refuge inside, where we made a pact that should one of us notice any Stuart-like behaviour in the other, we should tell them immediately.

Sunday November 25th

Three Thought Experiments

1. If a poem is printed in a book

but few people buy that book

and those that do, fail to understand the poem,

does it really exist?

2. Imagine a cat lying upon your lap.

It has been lying there for five hours.

During this time, it has not stirred once.

Its breathing is imperceptible.

Is the cat alive or dead?

3. Consider a group of people, each with a box.

They are told it contains a ‘custard cream’.

Each person can only look in their own box.

Might it be possible that each person

has something entirely different in their box?