Her Name Was Lola

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November 2001. No letters on the mat this morning. Thirty or forty flyers for Thai, Chinese, Indian takeaway, Pizza, Painting & Decorating, various car services but no letters. Was there something yesterday? Max can’t remember.

He goes down to the kitchen for breakfast, then up to his desk. He turns on the modem and computer, checks his e-mail. One offer to make him a millionaire, one to make his penis three to four inches longer overnight. He trashes both, then looks at what he did yesterday. Max writes novels that don’t sell, children’s picture books that do. His last novel, Any That You Cannot Put Downe, was published eight years ago. He’s been working every day but he hasn’t got anything that looks like Page One of a new novel. On the children’s book front he’s also without a Page One. He’s had considerable success with a series about a hedgehog called Charlotte Prickles but at the moment Charlotte isn’t telling him anything.

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