Free The Information Junkie by Roderick Leyland

or a Belinda who prefers Belindas. Cool by me! But don't spend too much time with Ffion (or Fergus): she (he) is just a stage through which to pass.
    How are we doing so far, buddies? Sort of drawing it together, aren't we?
    Earlier on, when I asked how old you had to be to get wise, I said I'd tell you. Well, I'm telling you now. I wish I had half the wisdom I sense in you and if I had one quarter the wisdom of all the writers whom Charlie acknowledges I'd be a wise man. In order to know how old you have to be to get wise, you first of all have to be wise. Now, that's a bit of a catch, isn't it? Sounds like the fruitful basis for a novel...
    Martin said he was an actor. He was. Charlie's a bit of an actor too. But I'm the real actor because I've been performing all the parts—even women. When the curtain's down and I've removed my costume and make-up I'll come to mingle with you in the bar. But you won't recognise me because my face is forgettable. I blend too well. The only way you're going to see my face is by doing what Charlie did when he returned from that place which some people call home. When Ffion showed him into the flat he greeted the books then looked in the mirror. And if you look into the mirror you will not be in some Magritte nightmare with a train steaming out of the fireplace.
    I've just about used up my time. Haven't I?
    A thought on mirrors: why was the Lady of Shallot only half sick of shadows?
    Keep your powder dry, keep your floppies away from strong magnets, always SAVE, SAVE, SAVE. Don't try to cram too much on one disc and don't surf at the expense of proper human relationships. These toys are means to an end, not ends per se . Now it really is coming to the end of the performance and I'm sweating underneath my costumes and make-up. All I want now is the curtain to drop so I can get to the pub.
    We'll go as a group, most of us anyway, and after the drink we'll stuff ourselves silly at the Star of India before at least one of us throws it all up again outside. Martin might even be in the group. He, or someone else, will suggest: This is rather silly, isn't it? Couldn't we just order it electronically, let someone else eat it and sick it up?
    Does Sainsbury's offer that service, yet?
    How old do you have to be to get wise, buddies? How old?
    And if you drink and eat too much you might well end up in hospital where you'll be attended by the Cybernurse who, if you ask, will give you a local before inserting the needle of the drip.
    But isn't this where you and I came in?
     

 
    11
     
    Help!
    I'm locked inside this place. Full of tubes to keep me alive—or do they guy me down? There is no escape. I know that. This is it. You finally reach a point from which you cannot fly. Butch it out with me: we're going to make it. You can trust me, knowing me a little; I trust you, not knowing you yet.
    You said you wanted a story. Snap! Do you know my problem—? I'm locked inside literature.
     

 
    PART THREE
     
    Conclusions of a Crimson Fish
     
     
     
     

 
    There are two things which I am confident I can do very well: one is an introduction to any literary work, stating what it is to contain, and how it should be executed in the most perfect manner; the other is a conclusion, shewing from various causes why the execution has not been equal to what the author promised to himself and to the public.
     
    —James Boswell, 'The Life of Samuel Johnson'
     
     
    *
     
     
    The author assures the reader that each page in Part Three is correctly formatted. There are no omissions or pagination errors.
     

 
    12
     
    Hi, buddies. How's your belly where the pig bit you?
    I'm back!
    Phew! Wow!! Feel as if I've been away for ages. Anyway, great to speak with you again. How's it been hanging while I've been away? All right? Good...great. Now listen: gonna continue with my story. Because that's what you like. Isn't it? Me too. Moi aussi. Ich auch . Anch'io.  Fabuloso!
    Oh, by the way, Romney Marsh was a dog, but