I gave the completed manuscript to Angela Hacker this morning. She took it from me and groaned, 'Sodding hell. I only asked for one page!' Then she put it into the blue raffia bag that she carries everywhere with her and continued her conversation with Clara about a dream she'd had of being chased by a giant cockroach.
At 11.00 p.m., after spending the evening with my friends, singing on the bar terrace, I got back to my hut to find that the following note had been slipped under my door:
Adrian,
I've skipped through Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland.
I won't waste words. It's typical juvenilia and has no merit at all. Sparg from Kronk has been done a million times, dearest boy. But A Book With No Language-Sparg's novel-is a truly brilliant concept.
I would like you to come and see me when we get back to London. I'd like to introduce you to my agent, Sir Gordon Giles. I think your originality will appeal to him.
Congratulations! You are a writer.
Angela Hacker
I may be a writer, Jo Jo, but I can't find the words to express my happiness.
My plane gets into Gatwick on Wednesday at 3.00 a.m.
Love from,
Adrian Tuesday April 14th Angela Hacker announced this morning that the writers' group's last meeting was to be held on 'Bare Bum Beach'. My penis shrivelled at the thought. I have never appeared in the nude in public before. 'Bare Bum Beach' is where the extrovert and confident desport themselves. I am neither of these things. However, after three glasses of retsina at lunchtime I found myself slithering over the rocks, heading for the nudist beach.
I was astounded by the ridiculous blue of the sea. The rocks shone pink as I stumbled towards the beach which was the colour of custard. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to shrug my shorts off and embrace the sand. For twelve long years I have worried about the size of my penis. Now, at last, by glancing at my fellow male writers I could see that I am made as other men. I easily fell within the 'normal' range.
At half past six in the evening I turned over and exposed myself to the sun. Nothing terrible happened.
There was no thunderbolt. Men and women did not run away, shrieking in horror at the sight of my full frontal nakedness.
I walked into the sea and swam towards the blood-red sunset. I allowed myself to float and to drift. It was almost dark when I swam back to the beach. I did not use my towel. I let the water dry on my body.
I walked back to the Institute in pale moonlight. I took a short cut through the woods. The floor was covered in pine needle debris, every footstep was a crackling aromatic delight.
I walked ankle deep through a glade of soft grass and wild flowers. Then I smelled honeysuckle and felt a tendril brush across my face. I reached the headland and stood for a moment, looking down at the Institute. The kitchen door was open. Out of it spilled bright light, laughter and the delicious smell of grilling meat.
Wednesday April 15th 10.00 p.m. I saw Jo Jo waiting beyond the barrier. I threw all my baggage down and ran towards her.
EOF.