Seizing my fountain pen, I started to scribble an urgent note to a well-known English movie star, to be found later on my body. I was sorry, I wrote, that she had failed to recognise that we were soul mates. It was with regret that I noted that she had chosen a handsome, talented young millionaire movie director as a partner, rather than a more obviously suitable person like myself. Convinced that there should be complete frankness between us, I confessed that my affection for her had been sorely tried by her disgracefully self-indulgent exhibition of tears at an Oscar ceremony. I was, however, prepared to forgive her for this unseemliness, and even managed through gritted teeth to send my best wishes and farewells to her husband. It seemed imprudent to appear before the Judgement seat with hatred in my heart. I ended by signing my name with a flourish for the last time, put on my jacket with the obscure sense that one should die with a certain formality rather than in shirtsleeves, and awaited a sickening thud.
