So dad, I'm two days in now and seem to be holding up okay. Your daughter isn't coping so well, but she's young and without practice. She's no beginner, but in comparison I have a lot of shields and I suppose I'm quickly developing another one. Wyndham and I are taking the drinking route: Neither of us can pretend you've gone to meet god in paradise, we both know you've just gone. I was never fond of finality, but there's a lot of it going around at the moment so drink seems to be the appropriate remedy. Or at least a softening agent.

You should see me: Suited, in black, but when I first spoke to Elisa I had a moment -kicked out at an industrial bin, so I'm finishing my look off with M and S slippers. I need fields and the open air, but that is going to have to wait a while. I make it to the pub because of a similar conviction to that of a penniless junky finding their next hit. And, by the way dad, your son is master of the simile. And when the publishers finally get round to me, once they've finished with all of this drivel, your name is going on the first page. There's other people, but they'll understand.

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