People are asking me questions.
“Yes,” they say, “it’s all very well, all this business with burgling and urine portage and the lesser-known works of Danny DeVito, but didn’t you used to be an unrequited novelist?”
“Well – ” I say, but they interrupt me.
“I tell you vot: you know dat — vot he called — de liddle vun?”
“Did you take your pill this morning?”
“Shadap, I break you head. No, de liddle vun — Danny DeVito. You know him?”
“I put it on the counter with your tea.”
I’m afraid this is going to be an unpleasant story, for it begins with the following words: I am sprinting desperately up Lygon Street at three minutes to five shaking a jar of my own urine.
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