My computer kept telling me I was performing an illegal action as if I’d hacked into the Pentagon or something, which I hadn’t as far as I knew, though how could I possibly tell? I didn’t suppose a little sign came up saying ‘Welcome to the Pentagon’, did it? I wondered how hackers knew where they were.

But it certainly wasn’t helpful to tell me it was an illegal act when I didn’t even want to do it. I was only trying to find yet more exciting mentions on the Internet of wonderful me.

Who were these machines to try to boss me about, anyway? I mean, who programmed them to interfere in innocent people’s lives? Next thing they’d be telling me to stop talking to my Dictaphone so much and do some work!

Eleven

Don’t Stop Me Now

NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

Dear Neville Strudwick,

I was more than happy to sign the copy of Spring Breezes you sent me, especially since you enclosed return postage. I’m so glad you enjoyed it even though your wife, Glenda, found it a trifle too risqué for her taste; but, as you say, a shared love of nature makes a strong bond.

Yes, the photo on the back is fairly recent, but I am afraid it is terribly flattering – I assure you the reality is far different!

I will get back to you about your manuscript, Sons of the Soil, in the near future.

Yours sincerely,

Tina Devino

It was Valentine’s Day, so even though it wasn’t a Monday I made the trek up to Sergei’s flat carrying a huge plastic sack of crinkled tissue-paper roses made by Jackie, who had been compulsively making paper flowers since the early seventies and didn’t know what to do with them.

When I moved to Shrimphaven the first thing I did was join the local library, but to do it I had to fight my way through a crinkled jungle of foliage to where Jackie sat at her desk like an ageing Pre-Raphaelite Sleeping Beauty. I came out with her phone number, three good murder mystery novels and a giant sheaf of bright orange paper poppies.

When Sergei returned from the Royal Ballet, where a couple of times a week he puts a select few through their pliés and pirouettes, I knew he would appreciate a bank of ruby-red roses leading to his door and a big, glossy, over-the-top card on the mat.

I was glad I didn’t see Tube Man en route because there’s nothing elegant about carrying black plastic bin bags about, but actually I was later setting out than I’d meant to be and so it was well after the commuting rush and into quiet mid-morning time when I approached and stood looking down through Sergei’s windows.