BookWorld Meteorology: Aside from the rain, snow and wind that often feature within the pages of novels for dramatic effect, another weather system works within the BookWorld; a sort of transgenre wind that is not a moving mass of air but one of text, sense distortion and snippets of ideas. It is usually only a mild zephyr whose welcome breeze brings with it a useful cross-fertilization of ideas within the genres and usually has no greater vice than the spread of the mispeling vyrus. On occasion, however, the wind has been known to whip itself up into a WordStorm that can dislodge whole sentences and plot devices and deposit them several genres away. It’s not a common phenomenon, but it’s wise to keep an eye on it. In my second week as Bellman, a WordStorm of unprecedented ferocity hit the library. It was the first real test of my Bellmanship. I think I did okay.

THURSDAY NEXT,
Private Diaries

I WAS ASLEEP IN my room in the Sunderland not long after my inauguration as Bellman. Everything had been pretty quiet that week. A few PageRunners and a sighting of the Minotaur, but nothing too serious. Text Grand Central was still coming to grips with the new management regime, and all the storycode engines had been shut down and rebooted to rid them of the UltraWord Operating System. So a lull was not only welcome, but necessary.

I was awoken from my slumber by a loud purring and was shocked to find the Cat formerly known as Cheshire about an inch from my nose.

“Hullo!” he purred, grinning fit to burst. “Were you dreaming about oysters?”

“No,” I confessed. “In fact,” I added, rubbing my eyes and attempting to sit up, “I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt about oysters.”

“Really? I dream about them all the time. Sometimes on the half shell and other times in an oyster bed. Sometimes I dream about them playing the piano.”

“How can an oyster play the piano?”

“No, I dream about them when I’m playing the piano.”

I looked at the clock. It was three in the morning.

“Did you wake me up to tell me about your oyster dreams?”

“Not at all. I can’t think for a moment why you are interested. Something has come up over at Text Grand Central and we thought you should be informed.”

I was suddenly a great deal wider awake. I moved to get up and the Cat politely faded from view as I stepped from the bed.

“So what’s up?” I asked, slipping on a T-shirt.

“It’s the TextWind,” said the Cat from the corridor. “We’ve been monitoring it all day and there is a possibility it could whip itself up into a WordStorm.”