[Inserted page, A Writer’s Diary]

I was back in East Anglia, for obscure academic reasons, so thought I’d arrive unannounced at Galley Beggar Towers. See if they were as delighted to see me as I estimated they would be if Selby Wynn Schwartz or Francis Plug appeared on their doorstep. As I walked up their road, a woman almost slipping on the black ice of the pavement said, ‘The most dangerous street in Norwich.’ I assumed she was referring to Sam and Elly’s dog. They pretend on social media that it’s all cute and friendly, but half the time they’re barricaded in the kitchen feeding it painkillers under the door and waiting until it’s fallen asleep. It’s like Cerberus with all the heads combined into one. My appearance wasn’t entirely accidental. I’d heard that they had received copies of the black edition of A Writer’s Diary. (Heard from Twitter, of course. No direct contact.) I didn’t realise I’d written the bloody book until I read it in a newsletter. Then I realised Sam must have nipped upstairs and “borrowed” my actual diary when he came round for coffee last year. So I knock on the door and it’s Sam, being dragged out on a walk by the shaggy black hound. ‘Oh, er, Tony – great to – got to go. Elly’s in the kitchen.’ I get in there, shouting to announce my arrival, and Elly’s prone on the floor with a wet dishcloth over her eyes. ‘We’ve paid your advance, and we’ve had the lawyers read it – you have no business here.’ I said, ‘I thought I could help you wrap them. Tie them up with twine. Watch a box set.’ ‘We’ve watched all the box sets,’ said Elly, still beneath the dishcloth. ‘Even the anime ones. There are literally none left. And because the mail’s screwed (Solidarity to the Postal Workers!!) we’ve decided to send your books out au naturel, as it were. Au naturel but slightly more likely to arrive before 2024.’ I was still recovering from the passion with which she’d shouted Solidarity and held up her fist. I started to say, ‘That sounds—’ But she interrupted with, ‘Our subscribers are wonderful and deserve to receive their books promptly. I am planning to send them out this afternoon, once I’ve had a little scream.’ ‘A scream?’ I said. ‘Yes, around this time in the afternoon I like to have a little scream about the world in general. Today I was going to have a special Christmas scream.’ She finally pulled off the dishcloth and smiled. ‘Care to join me?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ I said. And together we had a very satisfying Christmas scream, then began packaging up the books. Sam, or what was left of him, returned with the hell-hound eight hours later. ‘Only six stitches this time,’ he said to Elly. I wished them both a Happy Christmas and headed for the sanity of the last train out of Norwich.