One night, tired of television (if, as Elvis Costello once remarked, “the ‘Late Review’ is wrestling for the middle classes”, what then was ‘Come Dine with Me’ – cage-fighting for the chatterati?) Peter was seeking momentary solace in his room with a newspaper cutting of Mariella Frostrup. Just as he decorated her pixilated cheek there was an urgent knock on the door. Peter stuffed the papier-mâché lump beneath his duvet and reached for his Bible, attempting to look composed.
It was Paula, one of his “bohemian” flatmates. She was young, pretty and, this evening, very drunk. Along with the rest of the house she'd just returned from an Abba tribute concert; she was fetchingly bedecked in a silver Lamé jumpsuit with matching gold platform boots; her cheeks were painted blue and her hair was frankly a mess.