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.


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