I blame my parents for my early hatred of solitude. With two working parents, I was an unusual kid in the early seventies; if I was ill there was little prospect of either of them being at home to look after me. Aged five, I was left alone with a stinking cold and strict instructions not to answer the door to anyone. The silence deafened me. It seemed . . .

A story from oh comely issue ten. Somewhere between the second and third hour, I began to have a serious sense of humour failure. I had powered through the first hour of the excruciating embarrassment of tantric dance on a wave of novelty and English politeness. But novelty wears off and manners can only be stretched so thin. I was staring daggers at . . .