The diary of Digby Slingsby, author

MONDAY: I think our postmen are wonderful. Another rugful of rubbish came plopping through the slit this morning—all reminders, threats or offers. The letter from my so‐called agent, Fiona, is a combination of all three: she reminds me that the paperback edition of my Macao meeting is to be discussed on a telly book programme this week; threatens, if I dare to miss it after all her sweat to get it included, to cut off my forelock; and offers me lunch on Wednesday. (Jonathan, a young drip she's been stalking for months for his few thousand inherited quid, will be there too; still, it's a free meal.)