The Running Man
Back in the "Fitness Area" at the health centre. You'd think I'd be black-balled. I thought I'd escaped being papped at The Coast of Everything book launch in Dublin, but no, there I was, wine glass in hand, buck-toothed and swollen and, apparently, a foot shorter than my publisher, even though I don't think I actually am. I look like Penfold without his glasses, the blinking apple-pip eyes, lips curling back for...what? A nutritious bowl of sunflower seeds? A quick suck on glass water-bottle as big as I am, hanging from the roof of my cage. I can still look good in photos, as long as I'm very careful about the composition and lighting, and I fool myself that that's what I look like, and that John Patrick Higgins, my literary avatar, lives in a crisp, black and white world, the light falling just so over his cheekbones, as he stares down a satellite camera, buzzing him like a drone. He also doesn't appear to need any glasses. Bully for that fu...
