There is no television. There is probably one somewhere but we don’t seek it out. At home the television does everything, so instead we hoover up Titus Groan. It is so rich and indigestible it completely makes up for my thin vegetarian pizzamuesli diet. Falling away from ornate music I fall into John Fowles and spend hours in people’s rooms ignoring all attempts to engage me while I race, theatrically, at breakneck speed to the end of The Magus, which I am completely taken in by. I close the book and adopt an expression that combines transcendence with self satisfaction.