If only things would move on.
But they don’t. Mum’s employed another psychologist. And not because I kicked Frey out of the band. Apparently, I get emotional. I thought that was the whole idea. Why play music in the first place?
This psychologist, whose name is Russell, has asked to see what I’m writing. “Come down in the garage and I’ll show you,” I say. It’s the night before Guy Fawkes and there’s fireworks going off everywhere. We search for Blackie. Not so scared, Mummy Puss tries to tap out a novel herself, the computer being left on. One fingered, with Mummy Puss under one arm, I show Russell a heap of poetry written specifically for him. Thus absorbed, Blackie appears, and then, just as mysteriously, disappears again.