The writing brain, which lies somewhere on a smogbound street-view between the left and right hemispheres, is parked beside a fish head on the double yellows and is being towed away by a man in a suit. He leaves a postcard. On the front, there is a framed Renoir with a speech bubble that says, 'Not to be turned over quite yet.' So I top the blackcurrants. They're so happy they do a little, healthy vitamin C number. I airbrush the aubergines. They're delighted and sing: 'I am the Eggplant... Coo Coo Ca Choo!' It's no help to me, especially now I've run out of purple fruit.
On the back of the postcard, it says, 'I've come to collect.' I hear the crunch of a snail on the doorstep. I fumble the stash of papers. There's something here somewhere:
Em, D, AM6
Mugged by a teacher, became a runner with no shoes
Crowbarred the open window city blues
The pinstripes trickles the keyhole. 'The man doesn't like concrete! Do something!'
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