Picture-books aren’t real. The fairy-tales all got discredited long ago, didn’t they? There shouldn’t be thatched cottages still, tucked away among green hills. You shouldn’t be able to advertise in the local papers for an assistant and fall in love with the very first candidate who comes along. I should have gone on, in fairness, to consider Applicant Two and Applicant Three, since all I wanted (honestly Michael, truly Peter) was a competent part-time assistant. But I found out that, after all, I was still human. Vacancy filled. As if I should have resorted to the lonely hearts columns, and discovered, at the first attempt, lo and behold, my heart was cured of its loneliness … ‘Supposing you had been Number Three?’ ‘You mean you wouldn’t have chosen me?’ ‘No, I mean supposing you had been Number Three and I had chosen Number Two.’ ‘Then you would never have known me.’ ‘I can’t imagine never having known you.’ Three days a week. Paperwork. Film processing.
