Interruptions are rude - they get in the way, they knock me off course - but are recognised here as the stuff of life. There's gridlock on the m40 and a banana skin on every pavement. Lovers are disturbed in bed and my father becomes a rain god. Complacency is mocked. Death hovers. Shit happens. How life's unpredictable messiness is translated into fiction is examined and no conclusions are reached. Why, anyway, setting out from A, am I so sure that B is where I want to get to?