If only things would move on.
But they don’t. Mum’s employed another psychologist. And not because I kicked Frey out of the band. Apparently, I get emotional. I thought that was the whole idea. Why play music in the first place? Cos you’re a block of wood?
This psychologist, whose name is Russell, has asked to see what I’m writing. “Come down in the garage and I’ll show you,” I say. It’s the night before Guy Fawkes and there’s fireworks going off everywhere. We search for Blackie. Not so scared, Mummy Puss tries to tap out a novel herself, the computer being left on. One fingered, with Mummy Puss under one arm, I show Russell a heap of poetry written specifically for him. Thus absorbed, Blackie appears, and then, just as mysteriously, disappears again.
