On day release from the caves last week I was rooting around the old parental loft and found, nestled amongst the bats and worms and empty absinthe bottles, a teeny tiny newspaper I’d made when I was five. I’d forgotten all about these early journalistic tendencies, but now I’ve seen the teeny tiny newspaper again I vividly remember sitting at the table in our orange kitchen, making it. Or do I? That’s the thing about memories: you can never quite be sure. Or can you? And who are you, anyway? What? Oh, yes. Where was I…?

I’ve decided to share with you one of the more up-beat reports from the teeny tiny newspaper, skirting over the sad demise of many from the ‘COLERA’ and the general rise in prices as a result of the ‘TRAINS STIKE’. We will concentrate instead on the uplifting story of ‘JOHN’. No surname is given – I expect he withheld it to protect his privacy. ‘John’ has performed a ‘TREMENDOS SKI JUMP’, causing such a frenzy of excitement in the spectators that the mountain almost fell down. Heavens above. ‘WELL DONE DADDY, SAYS JOHN’S SMALL GILE,’ as well she might, even though her mouth is growing out of her neck, like that of her mother. This sinister turn of events was compounded when I noticed the diagram underneath, which is an uncannily accurate simulation of the mouth of the cave in which I am now trapped. Was it a premonition by my five-year-old self, or had I been here before? If so, I don’t remember it. Or do I….

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