Free Once More With Footnotes by Terry Pratchett

My-Name-Is-TRACEY-How-May-I-Help-You, I have small nuts in bag."
     
                  Dogger pulled aside most of a cow in small polystyrene boxes and Tracey's mad, terrified eyes looked up at him from the depths of the trolley. She extended a sticker gun in both hands, like Dirty Harry about to have his day made, and priced his nose at 98p a lb.
     
    -
     
                  "Soap," said Dogger. "It's called soap. Not like Neighbours, this one is useful. You wash with it." He sighed. "Vigorous movements of the wet flannel over par ts of your body," he went on. "It's a novel idea, I know."
     
                  "And this is the bath," he added. "And this is the sink. And this is called a lavatory. I explained about it before."
     
                  "It is smaller than the bath," Erdan complained mildly.
     
                  "Yes. Nevertheles s. And these are towels, to dry you. And this is a toothbrush, and this is a razor." He hesitated. "You remember," he said, "when I put you in the seraglio of the Emir of the White Mountain? I'm pretty certain you had a wash and shave then. This is just li ke that."
     
                  "Where are the houris?"
     
                  "There are no houris. You have to do it yourself." A train screamed past, rattling the scrubbing brush into the washbasin. Erdan growled.
     
                  "It's just a train," said Dogger. "A box to travel in. It won't hurt you. Just don't try to kill one."
     
                  Ten minutes later Dogger sat listening to Erdan singing, although that in itself wasn't the problem; it was a sound you could imagine floating across sunset taiga. Water dripped off the light fitting, but that wasn't the problem.
     
                  The problem was Nicky. It usually was. He was going to meet her after work at the House of Tofu. He was horribly afraid that Erdan would come with him. This was not likely to be good news. His stock with Nicky was bumping on the bottom even before last night, owing to an ill-chosen remark about black stockings last week, when he was still on probation for what he said ought to be done with mime-artists. Nicky liked New Men, although the term was probably out of date now. Jesus, he'd taken the Guardian to keep up with her and got another black mark when he said its children's page read exactly like someone would write if they set out to do a spoof Guardian children's page ... Erdan wasn't a New Man. She was bound to notice him. She had a sort of radar for things like that.
     
                  He had to find a way to send him back.
     
                  "I want to drink your blood," said Skung, from behind the sofa. "Oh, shut up."
     
                  He tried some positive thinking again.
     
                  It is absolutely impossible that a fictional character I created is havin g a bath upstairs. It's hallucinations, caused by overwork. Of course I don't feel mad, but I wouldn't, would I? He's ... he's a projection. That's right. I've, I've being going through a bad patch lately, basically since I was about ten, and Erdan is jus t a projection of the sort of macho thingy I secretly want to be. Nicky said I wrote the books because of that. She said I can't cope with the real world, so I turned all the problems into monsters and invented a character that could handle them. Erdan is h ow I cope with the world. I never realised it myself. So all I need do is be positive, and he won't exist.
     
                  He eyed the pile of manuscript on the table.
     
                  I wonder if Conan Doyle had this sort of problem? Perhaps he was just sitting down to tea when Sherl ock Holmes knocked at the door, still dripping wet from the Richtofen Falls or whatever, and then started hanging around the house making clever remarks until Doyle trapped him between pages