‘I’m tired.’

‘You said,’ says the book.

‘No, I mean, I’m tired. Of my handwriting.’

‘What’s wrong with it? It’s got you this far.’

‘It looks wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘Just, not, it’s not, I’m… I make mistakes. It looks wrong. Not as nice as other people’s.’

‘Are we comparing ourselves again? There’s no helping you sometimes.’

‘I was in a meeting. And everyone else’s was just, just nice, somehow. Mine looked like the cat had done it.’

‘You don’t have a cat.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You are a lost cause. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘Bollocks. Of course you can help it. You need to allow yourself to disappear for a bit. To submerge yourself in some other messages. To trust your instincts, ignore what people say they have been up to on Twitter. Wade in underbeing, as Ted Hughes puts it somewhere.’

‘River.’

‘What?’

‘That comes from River. Go Fishing, from memory.’

‘Well, bully for you. Top of the class again! Don’t fall off!’

‘Ouch!’

‘What’s more important to you, being a clever clogs or getting your mojo back?’

‘The latter. Mojo every time.’

‘This isn’t about your handwriting at all, is it?’ says the book.

‘Not really.’

‘Well then. Now go. And take your notebook with you. I’ll see you after the weekend. There’ll be a test.’