“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just don’t like fish. It’s the little bones, you see.”

“Oh. Well, I’m afraid it’s all there is, apart from bread,” he replied.

“I hate bread!” she fumed.

“Then go complain,” he replied. “I think that guy with the beard and sandals arranged the catering.”

Alex Sinclair was born in the winter of 1973 in Nottingham, England, and, on the cusp of his 40th birthday, is still trapped there. He longs for a looser, more liberal society where his own shaky morality and absurd beliefs could find succor and praise. Until that day, he bides his time, waiting to pounce like a graying and jaded ocelot. To amuse him and occupy all available time for the next 40 years of his life, he has just become father to twins, who, though but 3 months old, are acutely aware that daddy may not be quite right in the head. This small matter is overlooked as he can expertly and lovingly feed, burp, and nappy change each baby in just 15 minutes, whilst also attend to cooking duties downstairs with good humour. He lives with his long-suffering partner Shona, and cats David and Mogwai.