The technician who tried to tell me about the brain scan reads that and he stops trying to be Mr. Nice. I’ve given him an excuse to think of me as an enemy. Beneath the floppy hair, he has a fat face and he sweats too much. In fact he stinks. I can see hair in his nose. I’m reasonably sure he’s an ungenerous lover. I hope his wife is unfaithful to him with derelicts, and that she brings home diseases for which there are no names. I hope his dog dies. I know he has a dog because I can see the hair on his trouser cuff. And I recognise the mud. The precise constitution of that mud is a signature, the clay and red earth and the hint of gravel occurs in three places in London, but in only one of them will you find the seeds that cling to his sock. Like Sherlock Holmes I can read the evidence and infer from the reality of the present the map of the past, and now I know where he walks his dog.