Monday, 3 June 2013. I once had a friend called Maurice. But he was no oil painting either, with his roadkill-squashed nose and birds-nest eyebrows. But my friend Maurice had a very special talent. A talent big enough for the police forces of three different counties to keep him in ample employment. Maurice was a suicide negotiator. But it would have been bad manners to hurry him. I could immediately tell that he lived alone. No woman would have stood for hi.

Sunday, 29 April 2012. Love works best on a desert island. Suddenly there she was, sitting right next to me. Was she beautiful? Then she turned and looked at me. I was a skeleton, the flesh stripped from my bones by some scorching, nuclear wind. I hated everyone for being there.