ABSTRACT
Forgive the straws in the hair; I am enmeshed in a fictional playground. The latter stages of a novel, the bit where it starts to fly, always produce a surreal frame of mind. The plot swerves around, the characters wrench the wheel from the trembling authorial hand and every device must be employed to keep control. So when in doubt, I always tend cut the scene to whatever imaginary school my imaginary family favours.
