Initial musings on the release of my first book

So, the first book out now for sale. Exciting times, crack open the champagne, chat smugly about my ouevre, shrug rhyly at suggested interpretations of the text. Sadly not (though I’m not a fan of the self important alter ego I’ve just created) a far more sober and less portentous occasion. Anti climatic almost…

The problem is being self published and taking the indie route is not glitzy and glamourous. Sales are painfully slow, if reading at all on any psysmic graph. How in the hell do I get the bloody invisible thing noticed. There is a sea we are desperately paddling in, splashing and crying out to get noticed. How do I ensure that it is me, with such a multitude out there? How do I avoid sinking to the bottom and being forgotten? A deflated feeling might surely ensue. But…

I have a bloody great feeling of accomplishment having done all this (with the exception of some well received assistance proof reading) myself. It’s mine, nobody can or has had any final say on anything, bar me of course. I have listened to advice and taken heed of it, but that penetrates no deeper than the front cover, which was a bit shit to be honest. A relative of mine stated that it takes guts to go independent and strike your own path (a theme my book deals with) and I’d never credited myself with that. 

So what to slow sales, they’ll hopefully pick up. It will take time, I must be patient and above all confident in my work. Oh and I desperately need to stop checking every half hour if someone else has bought the bloody thing! Even if it does not, does that diminish my sense achievement? 

Only time will tell. We are after all merely viewing the sun creeping above the horizon. 

If you are interested in making me leap from my chair on exultant gratitude then please check out my book: amazon.co.uk/dp/B00WNMVZQ6/…

Excerpt from upcoming book: Who is Fiengus Longfinger

Fiengus drove through the streets of Von Dufflestein, in the direction of the Mayor’s office. The roadways were predominantly cobbled in the town, which was fairly large, being once a trading port, of some importance, in its hay day. Dominating the skyline of the town was the University, which was world famous for its groundbreaking research. The surrounding environs of the town were mainly rural, resplendent with beautiful hills and mountains with crystal clear rivers cutting through them, vast forests of great and ancient trees and fine arable land which was tilled by the local farmers. To the north of the town lay the sea, so vast and crystalline and once of major importance to the town. The air of the town was filled with the scent of the salty sea when the wind blew in from the north and the scent of pine trees when blowing from the south. It was a wonderful place to live, thought Fiengus, and he was grateful to do so.

It was not far to the Mayor’s office and he arrived in good time. He entered the large building, which had a very grand front, decorated with columns and a mural depicting the founding fathers of the town. Fiengus gave this little heed and entered hastily into the reception area, seemingly intent on getting on with business. “Have a seat, the Mayor is expecting you,” said the receptionist.

Fiengus had just sat down when the Mayor burst into the hallway. He was a portly man, wearing a suit that may have fit years ago and was sweating profusely. His greying hair was very unkempt, and looked like it had been something blowing in the wind prior to attaching itself to the man’s head. The Mayor gave the immediate impression of someone who was stressed and had nothing in the way of coping strategies to deal with it. “Why did you not tell me he was here!” he cried at the receptionist. “This way, quickly, we have much to discuss,” he said as he ushered Fiengus into his office.

The office was a mess with papers strewn across the Mayor’s desk and a general atmosphere of nervous tension filled the air. Through the windows, which dominated much of the far wall, it was possible to gaze out over the whole town and capture it within the frame, giving it portraiture like appearance. This beautiful view was in stark contrast to the office. The mess on the desk flew suddenly into the air as the Mayor seemed to search desperately for something. “Take a seat Fiengus,” said a voice from behind. Fiengus turned to see a man he recognised, but could not recall from where.

He began to sit down, when the Mayor screamed, “Not there you fool!” He then rushed over and grabbed something from the chair and in doing so knocked the chair over. Fiengus was unsure whether he should pick up the chair or leave it as the Mayor had knocked it down and should pick it up himself he felt; on the other hand he was the Mayor and was possibly due extra respect in these sorts of situations. Before he could come to a conclusion the Mayor whisked him over to a large table in the room, upon which there were was a map with coloured pins dotted in it.

“This map,” said the Mayor, “shows the locations of the Instances.”

“That’s what we are calling them,” added the familiar stranger.

“Yes, that is what we have decided. It’s a working title, but seems popular with everyone here. What do you think, eh Fiengus?” asked the Mayor, who was staring expectantly at him.

Fiengus had no idea to what the names referred, but did not want to seem like he wasn’t paying attention. “Yes, that is a good name,” he ventured, the Mayor did not change his expression of expectation. “Makes it all very clear; Instances, why yes of course.” The Mayor seemed pleased by this, but only momentarily.

He then began to throw his arms in the air and wail out, “What are we to do about this? It’s confirmed that they should be called Instances; this is grim news!” The Mayor then threw himself down into the chair that Fiengus had just picked up, having felt he needed a distraction from the Mayors awkward display.

The stranger approached Fiengus and directed him to the map. “Look, Fiengus, at what this is doing to the Mayor, he’s distraught. We need to sort this out immediately. Can you do it?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied, which caused the Mayor to wail even louder. “I mean, I’m not sure what these Instances are, they need investigating I am sure, but their nature at the moment remains a mystery.” The stranger looked confused and stared at Fiengus, who pretended to look at the map as knowingly as he could. “There seems to be a pattern here,” he said, drawing the attention of the stranger away from himself and onto the map. “Look it makes a shape like something I’ve seen before, but I can’t put a finger on it.”

This caused the Mayor to leap to his feet, almost too enthusiastically. “Why isn’t he just the man! I told you, I told you! Fiengus Longfinger is the very man for this. This is so much more than we have been able to work out. What do you think it could mean?” inquired the Mayor?

“Well, I’m not sure at this moment, but I think if I take it to my friend at the University, he may be able to shed some light on it,” replied Fiengus, who was now desperate for an excuse to leave the office.

“Excellent, take it there at once. Let us know immediately what you find out,” cried an excited, reassured looking Mayor.

“Then it’s settled Fiengus, you will go to the University of Von Dufflestein and speak with this acquaintance of yours, find out all you can and then report back to us. We can then decide on the best course of action,” said the stranger, holding out his hand to Fiengus. “Good luck and farewell Fiengus.”

Fiengus took the man’s hand and shook it, “Thank you and it’s been a pleasure meeting you… I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“What you mean you forgot it?” said a perplexed looking Mayor.

“No, I’m sure it was never mentioned.”

“I didn’t think it necessary,” the stranger said.

“Look I’m really sorry, we must have met before and my memory isn’t serving me well. This is a stressful situation we seem to be in,” said Fiengus.

“Do you mean to say you have no idea who this man is?” questioned the Mayor, who had a fresh look of uncertainty across his face.

“No, I feel I have met him before, but can’t remember exactly when,” muttered Fiengus, who was feeling a little embarrassed by this all.

“But, you must have read about him,” said the Mayor “it was all mentioned in the pack we sent you.”

“Pack?” queried Fiengus.

“Yes, the pack we sent you, it contained all the relevant information we have been able to gather on this mission. It was sent to you. I addressed the envelope myself,” said the Mayor, looking to the stranger for reassurance.

“Yes, we did, it had everything,” agreed the stranger.

“Sorry, but again no, I received your letter inviting me to come here this morning, and here I am, but no pack arrived,” replied Fiengus.

“Oh dear,” said the stranger, as the Mayor swept into another storm of wailing and uncontrolled dismay. “It appears that all of our information has been lost.”

They were gathered, after both Fiengus and the stranger, who it transpired, was named Von Snare and who worked for the Mayor’s office in the Department of Strange Occurrences yet to be Named, had brought the Mayor to his senses, around the receptionist’s desk. It had also been revealed that this mislaid pack contained all the information the team under Von Snare had been able to gather, and due to budget constraints were unable to duplicate. The receptionist was bringing up all the recent mail and outgoings from the Mayor’s office and had just traced the package on the list. “Here it is, and there’s the letter that was sent, which was received by Fiengus,” said the receptionist.

“Where was it sent?” cried the Mayor. The receptionist clicked on the package and checked for the details.

“It was sent to,” read the receptionist, “well this can’t be right.”

“What is it?” inquired Von Snare.

“Well, this is the address that I sent the letter to and this is the address the package was sent to. They don’t match up,” said the receptionist.

“Eh, let me see that,” snapped the Mayor. “Well how could that happen?” he asked.

“Well it says here that you filed this and sent it, Mayor,” read Fiengus.

“Preposterous, I’m the Mayor, I make no mistakes. There must have been a mess up along the lines, let me see,” and he grabbed the mouse from the receptionist and began clicking angrily on various icons. After some fruitless clicking the Mayor resigned that it was indeed a mistake and that whoever was to blame for it would be sought out and severely disciplined. No one pointed out that the Mayor himself was to blame. At this point he made a phone call to the Department of Correction and insisted that: “Someone be fired for this and it made well known what an incompetent they were and of course the press should be informed, but not of the leek of information, but only the incompetence and the quick rooting out of the problem.” He ended the call by stating, “You know what must be done, and you’re experienced experts at this, which is why I pay you on behalf of the good people of Von Dufflestein to ensure that they never know of such things. It’s for theirs and our best interests.”

After slamming the phone down the Mayor turned to Fiengus. “Right, it appears that the package has been mislaid, the details of which are unimportant, except for one thing, we know where it has been sent. This is a relief, and you are the man to collect it. As someone from outside this office, you’ll attract little attention; just making a call on an old friend, or something like that.” The Mayor clicked on something, “I’m printing off the address. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to be discreet about this.” He then reached over to the printer and thrust a sheet of paper with an address on it. Fiengus was struck by how collected the Mayor suddenly seemed, a man who had, five minutes prior, been on the edge of a break down, now suddenly seemed to know exactly what to do.

“So you want me to retrieve this package now?” asked Fiengus.

“Yes of course, go there first thing tomorrow morning. You are partly to blame here after all, it was you who had the wrong address,” answered the Mayor. “Just go to the address, explain that you think a package of minor importance has been wrongly delivered and state you would like it back.”

“Offer, a small reward,” offered Von Snare.

“Yes, people ask less questions when you pay them,” agreed the Mayor. Fiengus looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and resigned himself to going along with this plan. The address was,

​​325 Metus Road

​​Von Dufflestein

​​VD314 JH6

Fiengus immediately knew this area. It was familiar to all, but rarely visited, and not by anyone he knew of. This was getting worse, but at least he had something to do, which seemed to quell his feeling of existential angst. However, this feeling was replaced by one of trepidation; the address was in the troll district.

Old Footprints (poem)

Forgotten, lays awake
Waits for night to hide the day,
When the moon rides on the waves.

Moonlight illuminates
Lost ships trapped in their wake.
I wonder how I can relate.

Walk the shoreline here for days,
Old footprints will lead the way
To places I can relate.

Memories upon the shore
Leave impressions
On you.

Signs of yesterday
Float by on the waves.
Sirens will lead us astray.

Looking out across the bay
A landscape turning grey;
The colors fade away.

Apparitions walk the beach,
Like moments out of reach,
Fleeting memory.

Memories upon the shore
Leave impressions.
A mark that will fade,
As time shows it’s age.

Should I write to an audience?

In the correspondences I have had with book promoters, publishers etc. a common question has arose: Who is your intended audience? I find this a strange question. Firstly because I feel it is unanswerable, but also because I would not like to limit myself to such a goal in my writing.

To write, to an audience who like book x, would be like stating I want to write a book like book x. That seems a little off putting to me. Writing to appeal to someone else’s audience is like being in a covers band; yes it takes talent but somehow lacks ambition.

So do I write directly to a demographic of society then? Let’s take the middle class as an example. Do I think of my characters then, and restrict them to those that the middle class may relate to? Perhaps have a teacher or an art dealer or some other middle class cliche? I’m feeling a bit downhearted already! Again I feel I’m limiting myself. To move onto dialogue, narrative, plot, setting… I’m limited in my palate to choose from.

Moving on, do I write with an age in mind? Perhaps. I would agree that this may be necessary, for example the tone of language or themes really must be appropriate, and this is an ethical question we are asking. However, to write a book, like a Pixar film does, that appeals to both adults and children might be a good idea. But, so might be writing solely for children and for teens… Ok, a point must be conceded then to those who feel you need an audience, but purely on ethical grounds and no further than a consideration of age appropriateness.

Finally, do I consider writing for a fan of a particular genre? Again I would concede that perhaps you do, but by stating that you are writing to people that may like horror books when you are writing a horror story is kind of stating the blatantly obvious. Therefore the question loses it’s necessity.

I think that there is one last glimmer of hope for answering. The answer comes from something I read by Giles Deleuze, when he was talking about minor literature. He said that minor literature doesn’t write to a preconceived audience, it creates one. By being something that takes a new angle on things, by being itself, it makes an audience which didn’t even know that it existed. I always liked that, and try to stick with it. Kafka didn’t write to an audience who liked kafkaesque books. For him, and I agree, it’s not about being unique, for him that is impossible, but by being different and extending the boundaries of what we think of as literature, perhaps only a few feet.

I don’t know how a publisher would react to such an answer. Possibly unfavourably, or possibly pressing for something else. Their prime motive is to shift units and that may not be yours. If it is, then I guess you too could write specifically to fans of wolves and vampires and cash in before dawn breaks and people are looking for something else. Unfortunately, if you are writing with fans of vampires in mind then you won’t be the one to start something new.

Perhaps I’m too harsh, and going back to my bands analogy. I didn’t start writing my own songs before playing in covers bands, though it certainly helps. It also makes you feel more comfortable on the stage playing what you know will please. But, at some point you must leave your comfort zone and…
See what happens.

What not to say to a troll border control

3 THE TROLL DISTRICT

The following morning, several things were going through Fiengus’ mind as he drove towards the address. Firstly, he was of course concerned about going to the troll quarter; it was not a place people went to. What made this worse was that he didn’t really know why people didn’t go to the troll quarter, leaving the reason open to his overactive imagination. Secondly, he did wonder several times what the diet of a troll might look like and if it bore any resemblance to him. To avoid thinking about the possible gruesome things that may or may not happen, he reflected on the day so far. To begin with, he liked having a purpose to his life, all be it a very uncertain one. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the feeling of being on a quest or adventure of sorts and decided that he would focus on that good feeling. This was of course accompanied by the fear of the unknown, but Fiengus felt that he barely knew himself, let alone the big wide world, so fear of the unknown should be ignored. The Mayor had crossed his mind too, and most of the thoughts of him were not flattering. Fiengus felt that it seemed unusual to have in charge of an important town like Von Dufflestein, a man so hopeless, so easily shifted in mood, to the point of instability, and as far as Fiengus could see someone completely useless at their job. His was a very important job after all.

He didn’t have long to think about these things, as he had arrived at the troll quarter. After parking his car, he paused and looked up at the large gate that blocked the road ahead, which made up part of a very large wall. The wall could not be seen over, as it was so very tall and to add to its height and imposing character, forks and knives had been cemented along the top, all with their points skywards. Trolls, Fiengus recalled from an article he had read about them, were suspicious creatures. They feared most things and as result were rarely seen outside of their own communities. They did not completely close their doors however, as they were afraid of not knowing what was happening in the outside world. From what Fiengus could gather, they were unpredictable and driven by a fear of most things, which made dealing with them very, very tricky.

Fiengus drew a deep breath and approached the gate. A large, brass horn stuck out of the wall with a smaller similar shaped horn underneath. Next to this sat a button and a sign that read: “Push the button and someone may answer, if not accept this and go away.” This seemed a little rude and off putting, and with this and a wall crudely decorated with cutlery a bad feeling was finding home in his gut. He pushed the button. There was a few seconds pause. Nothing. He waited. Fiengus decided that he hadn’t pushed the button long enough, and despite the sign, rang again. Again nothing happened. He became frustrated and was about to turn around and leave, when he remembered that he would have to return to the Mayor, who seemed to be incredibly severe on people who failed in their duty, even when it wasn’t their fault. Fiengus resolved to ring one last time, and pushed the button down and held his finger on it.

A crackling sound came through the receiving horn and then a voice came through, “Stop pushing the button!” shrieked the voice. Perhaps it was the antiquated looking communications device, but the person on the other end had an incredibly high pitched voice. “What are you doing?” it continued.

“The sign said to push the button, so I did,” replied Fiengus, who had by now removed his finger from the buzzer.

“Do you do everything that a sign says so literally?” Fiengus had no answer to this; the question seemed too ridiculous to bother with. The person on the other end continued, “What do you want here?”

“I want to enter the troll quarter.”

“Business or pleasure?” queried the voice. Fiengus had to think about this, he remembered that this was a covert mission.

“I’m here visiting a friend of mine,” he eventually answered.

“Are you visiting them for them for business or pleasure?” inquired the voice.

“Well,” said Fiengus, “neither really, it’s personal.”

“You’re being very guarded about this. Are they terrorists, these friends of yours?”

“What?” cried Fiengus, “Of course they are not, what a stupid question.”

“You think that security against the threat of terrorism is stupid?”

“No, but asking someone if they are a terrorist is. Who would actually say yes? Certainly not a terrorist anyway.” Fiengus felt very proud of himself, for his display of irrefutable logic. This feeling lasted a very short time and was replaced by a feeling that he had said the wrong thing. This was doubly emphasised by the sudden sounding of a siren and a very large red light flashing overhead. Fiengus stood completely overwhelmed and was quickly surrounded by several, very large, trolls who grabbed a hold of him. As he began to protest, the troll to whom he had been speaking came out and said, in the same high pitched voice, “Take him, he’s a self confessed terrorist.”

“No I’m not!” pleaded Fiengus, who was now being led away.

“That’s just what a terrorist would say,” said the troll, smugly. Fiengus remembered how paranoid trolls were. This was not going to be easy to get out of. It took several calls to the Mayor’s office to get Fiengus released and gain entry to the troll quarter. The covert mission was not going well.

He gazed for the first time at the interior of the troll quarter. What struck him immediately were the houses. They looked like ordinary houses; windows; doors; a roof and so on. However, what these houses had in abundance were security precautions, rivalling the devices of defence found in military bases. There were bars across everyone’s windows, steel doors with intercom systems, signs that warned of death to trespassers and that large ferocious dogs lived in these houses, trained with the sole purpose of ripping apart anyone mad enough to venture too close to their owners or their property. The roofs were slick with a substance similar to Vaseline, and were topped with cutlery, pointing out at all angles as though attack could come from anywhere and needed defending against. There was a definite feeling of hostility towards anything that could be deemed hostile and as far as Fiengus gathered everything seemed to fit this category, including Fiengus, who was being eyed with suspicion by some trolls, from behind chainmail curtains.

Out in his garden, Fiengus noticed a troll, who had not noticed him, checking that his window bars were secure. Recalling his initial dealings with the trolls, he decided to try a different, softer tact. Speak less, be to the point and leave nothing to misinterpretation.

“Hello there,” greeted Fiengus. The troll turned around peered at him suspiciously. “I’m looking for a friend, but can’t find his house, it’s this address,” he said as he showed the troll the address on the piece of paper. The troll gazed at it briefly, and then shot back into his house. “I’ve scared him away, I must have been too abrupt with him,” thought Fiengus to himself. He was just turning away when the troll returned, but this time was brandishing a gun. Fiengus panicked and ran. As he ran up the road he heard the troll cry out, what sounded like, “Trespasser!” He stopped once he was out of sight and came to the realisation that this was going to be very difficult indeed.

Determined not to dally in the street and perhaps provoke some other unprovoked attack on his person he moved swiftly on. He eventually reached the address, keeping as low a profile as he could, which was difficult being the only human there who also happened to have an enormous finger. He knocked on the door and then taking a step a back, he looked up at the house. It was much the same as the other houses, adorned in the most outlandish security precautions he had ever seen. He thought about how absolutely terrified of the outside world these trolls must be and suddenly imagined them as being like hermit crabs, but only on dry land and without pincers and an ability to walk forwards and back and not just sideways… His train of thought was derailed by a voice that said, “I’m not in, I’m not expecting visitors and I’m not answering this door to a stranger with an even stranger finger!” The voice came through the intercom system, which Fiengus noticed had a camera that was pointing directly at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for a package of mine that has been misdirected and posted here instead. It’s from the Mayor’s office to me you see,” pleaded Fiengus, who was a little taken aback by the inhospitable nature of the troll’s greeting.

“A package?” mused the troll, “I’m sorry but there’s no package here, and even if there were why deliver it here rather than wherever you are from?”

“It was an accident, the Mayor… someone in the Mayor’s office made a clerical error and sent it here,” said Fiengus.

“What’s in this package?” asked the troll.

“I’m not sure, but it’s for me and it is very important,” replied Fiengus.

“Why’s it so important?” asked the troll.

“It contains top secret documentation about something I cannot tell you about.”

“If it’s so important why was it sent to the wrong address?” inquired the troll.

“As I said it was an accident. Look I really need this package, if you look on the package you will see that it has my name at the top,” said Fiengus, who was now growing slightly impatient.

“Your name is at the top of the label on the package? So they got that right and the rest wrong?” asked the troll.

“Yes my name is on the top and this address is underneath it. My name is Fiengus Long…” said Fiengus, who was cut short by the troll.

“If the package were here as you seem to claim then why do you feel it necessary to tell me your name? Surely had it been written on there and if it were in my possession I would know what the name was. Now you are claiming to be the person whose name is written on the top, so telling me your name would be unnecessary as I should already know it,” philosophised the troll.

“What? No, that doesn’t follow. If you do have the package then yes you would know the name that was written on the label and yes if I were to claim to be the person to whom this package was originally destined then it would in fact need to be my name written on the package, but this does not imply that you should know that I know what the name is on the package, therefore me telling you my name and you then verifying this by reading what is written on the package, would thus prove that I am in fact the person to whom the package is rightfully destined,” replied Fiengus, who felt very out of breath after such a long sentence.

“Ok, I accept that what you say is true, but that you would need to prove that you are in fact the said person,” responded the troll after a short pause.

“Look at my library card, that’s my photo and my name there is Fiengus Longfinger.”

“It could be a fake.”

“I have a letter from the Mayor’s office.”

“They make mistakes, you said so yourself.”

“Look I’m telling the truth, I am no liar.”

“How do I know you are not a liar and you’re making this whole thing up?” Fiengus noticed how quickly the troll had latched onto the word liar. He needed to be more careful with what he said.

“You are a pain in the… wait. If what I said about the Mayor’s office was true then yes it could be a mistake and I’m not who this letter says I am, but if I were a liar then who’s to say that I didn’t lie about the Mayor’s office, which would imply that the Mayor’s office don’t make mistakes and I would be who the letter said I was, but this would mean that there had been no original mistake and there would be no reason for me to be at your door, which is paradoxical; therefore I cannot be a liar and I’m telling the truth,” said Fiengus, feeling that this must settle it.

“Maybe you’re just inconsistent.”

“Right, I’ve had enough, even if I was not Fiengus Longfinger, you certainly are not and as the name on top of the package is not your name you have no right to it,” replied Fiengus.

“You’re right, I have no right to the package,” replied the troll. Fiengus felt that he was getting somewhere finally.

“So can I please have it then?” he asked sounding relieved.

“No,” replied the troll.

“What?” Fiengus sounded somewhat taken aback.

“What you said was true and I realised this earlier, that I had no right to the package, so I took it back.”

“Took it back, but where?”

“Where you return all mail, the Sorting Office,” said the troll.

“Where is that? Oh god, this is too much,” said Fiengus, who was feeling very down. He had to sit on the doorstep, he was feeling very sick. At this he actually began to sob. He felt terrible about it and very embarrassed. Through his high spec surveillance camera, the troll watched Fiengus and felt a pang of sadness at what he saw, which momentarily shifted his regular overriding feeling of fear. It was just enough for him to have a change of heart.

“Look, I’ll show you, if it will get rid of you,” replied the troll. Fiengus stood up from the doorstep, wiped his eyes and awaited the troll. He heard several bolts, chains, number punching and keys turning. The door finally opened and Fiengus looked at the troll for the first time.

Chapter 1 from Who is Fiengus Longfinger?

1 A Dilemma

Fiengus Longfinger sat and stared out of his living room window and thought to himself, “What will I do with my life?” This was a question that he had been asking himself a lot lately. He was an ordinary man in almost every respect except in respect to his unordinary finger. It was a very long finger. This in itself is not really a remarkable thing, but Fiengus’ finger was made so long by the gods themselves. And this made it a special finger. However, the origin and length of the finger seemed to be the only special thing about it; as far as anyone could tell the finger did nothing, except those things an ordinary finger might do. This gift and the question of what it actually was provided the source of the sadness and existential quandary which he found himself in. He just didn’t know what to do. And to make things worse he wasn’t even sure what an existential quandary was.

The idea that he was in one came from his friend Professor Helmsman, who he had been chatting to earlier about his predicament. “Fiengus,” he had said, “you’re in what we call an existential quandary. It’s very common, especially with those with special gifts, like your finger.” Fiengus had replied that he didn’t know what he meant, and when Professor Helmsman had explained that it basically meant that he didn’t know who he was or what he should do with his life, he felt no better about the whole thing. Fiengus knew these things, what did it matter that he called it an existential quandary. He had left not long after that, feeling more confused about his confusing situation and returned home. Which was where he now was, looking out of his window.

His problems were made worse by a letter that had arrived that morning. At around 9 in the morning the letter had arrived from the Mayor of Von Dufflestein, requesting Fiengus come and see him at 4 in the afternoon. A meeting with the Mayor was one thing, but the last sentence which had said, ‘We desperately need your assistance in a matter beyond our capabilities: you are our only hope!’ had only made his feeling worse than ever. He had absolutely no idea what it related to and why he was the only hope. Fiengus was, by his own admission, a bit of a layabout, caused not by being lazy, but simply from not knowing what to do. His whole life was like this and he felt that it needed a purpose, something to give meaning to it. The summons from the Mayor he hoped might provide exactly this, but it was a distant hope; the Mayor was not renowned for his professionalism or for giving people anything much of any worth to do.

It was quarter to 4 now and Fiengus wanted nothing more than to hide. However, one thing Fiengus wasn’t was a coward. He put on his coat, hat and bespoke gloves and left the house.