Webster Soninlaw sank back into his armchair, and held the book up to a dusty sunbeam.

‘This says our lives are a story’, he announced.

Eunice Halfsister sliced Buttermilk Pie, and harrumphed.

‘We are the last of our kind Eunice’, continued Webster.

Eunice harrumphed.

‘Our lives are a fiction. And all that is and was, is this narrative. Would you believe it?’

‘And how did it end?’

‘It says that Eunice harrumphed.’

‘Harrumph’, harrumphed Eunice.