When I awoke the next day—or it may have been the next night—I was very, very hungover, and painfully aware that I had talked the most appalling rubbish to those around me and most particularly to a broad-hipped and attractive arts stringer from the Sydney Morning Herald . I staggered out of bed and called my mirror an idiot, and he smirked at me and called me the same. It seemed unfair that I should have a hangover, while he looked indecently chipper, but that is the nature of reflections. Mind you, I suppose I had no way of knowing he wasn’t as unhappy as I was. I ate what I could without gagging, and set to my canvas—but when I began to paint, I knew that everything had changed.