We get ourselves a reader

I call Danny to tell him he has left his script behind.

He informs me with swelling pride that he has started a novel. I cheerlead this latest evidence of his creative renaissance, or naissance, with bland pep. For fully thirty minutes I froth lush praise before he tells me that the novel is Animal Farm. “It’s about pigs,” he adds helpfully. “They’re very organised.”

Sometimes I feel my body has yet to adjust to Earth gravity.

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