I shall be staying far away from this place, out of harm’s way. Safe from insult on my birthday.

1pm. I am upstairs in the Emporium, lying underneath a table, working on its legs.

Paul is shouting up the stairs. “Oi, Mutton,” he roars, “I’m going to get lunch.”

Until my fringe grows out, it seems I must endure this new nickname which, as long as you keep bearing possible alternatives in mind, is easier than you might think.