Storyteller's World

It was weeks since I'd had a decent story. Ulysses was OK in its way, though according to some people the story could be told shorter: "A man walks around Dublin all day; nothing happens." That's not strictly fair. It has much more of a story than that, and every character has his or her own story too, which accompanies them like the eight-ninths of an iceberg that you don't see, beneath the surface. During the course of that long walk around Dublin, some of those hidden parts of the various icebergs reveal glimpses of themselves. But that's all it ever is, just glimpses. So it felt like weeks since I'd had a decent story.

I went down to the city, to the quarter they call Blackwell. Walking the mean streets to get there, I negotiated the usual seething mass of humanity. People are reluctant to look one another in the eye. You're too busy watching to seize the moment to step off the pavement and avoid being run off by crowds of excited teens, gabbling away in some foreign language. And if that happens you'd better watch out that you're not mown down by a car, a bus, or another one of those cyclists that's just run the red light. It's a jungle out there: no wild animals, but everything else is trying to kill you, one way or another.

Down in the depths of Blackwell, seedy-looking types lean against the walls, their heads bent, intent on scrutinising what they hold in their hands. One of them looks up and hisses at me. "Need a story, guv'nor? You look the kind of bloke who'd be interested in this. Look to me like you haven't had one for longer than you care to remember. Come on, one of these is bound to be good for you."

So I gave in, in a fit of desperate need, and followed him into Teenage Fiction. And came away with two Cornelia Funkes and a William Nicholson. I couldn't help it. And don't look at me like that. You'd have done just the same.