I receive a phone call from a number I do not recognise.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Oh, hi,” says a voice I do not recognise. “I just wanted to let you know that you feature heavily in my latest novel. A lot of it is based on your life. Nearly all of it in fact.”
“Can you tell me more?”
“Unfortunately not. I don’t want to spoil any of the secrets, I just wanted to let you know ahead of publication.”
The line goes dead and I stand there with the phone in my hand listening to the dead line, but sooner or later I hear it twitching and it is not dead and I climb into the telephone and then into a place I do not recognise. All the time I am thinking about how exciting it is that someone has written a novel based on my life and I wonder what the author will have made of it.
Eventually I end up in his apartment. He does not notice me. He is busy replying to emails. He is so involved in his work that even when I cough he does not turn round. I recognise him but I am not sure where from.
I creep over to his dinner table where a manuscript of his novel lies open. I begin to read it but I do not recognise the characters, the setting, the plot. None of it corresponds to my life. I feel cheated – was my life not interesting enough for him to turn it into a novel?
“What the-” he says as he turns round.
“Yes,” I say.
“Oh,” he says.
“Ok,” I answer.
Then I lean back against the window and fall through, turning into a fabulous massive seagull as I catch the breeze and soar over the city, looking down upon grubs and flavoured teas and missed calls and wrong numbers.