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.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012. IN your dreams, man! In my waking world I am a slave to rules, routine, and tiresome responsibilities. The people are stuck up and boring, so anxious to make the right impression. My surroundings are wishy-washy shades of grey. No, give me my dream world any time. At that height the sky is crystal clear, the stars a dense carpet of pulsing pin-prick light.