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harm’s way. Once in the house, the rest was easy. The scene was set for Stanley’s last hang-up.
    You wanted the detective to watch me until I led him to lover boy. Nice idea. Only problem is, there was never anyone special for me.
    All right, I did lie about the Ideal Home Exhibition. As a matter of fact, I went to work instead. For the last two years I’ve had a part-time job in a big hotel in London. How can I describe it without being crude? Making money from my hobby, let’s say. Think of it like Stanley selling some of his stamps.
    No regrets. We are what we are. Well, maybe one regret. That I got caught. But who by, I wonder? The South African gentleman with funny ideas? The bloke who quoted poetry at the most unexpected moment? The man from Militant Tendency, the barrister who liked it with his wig on?
    Only joking. I really don’t know. As I explained to Stanley when he realised what his symptoms meant. I hadn’t even had the test then myself. But he was panic-stricken, couldn’t believe what had happened to him. I tried reassurance. It can take years before the worst happens.
    But look what he did the moment my back was turned. His suicide shook me, though at first I tried to carry on as before. Bad luck on the coroner and the sergeant, but men in their position ought to know better.
    Your private detective’s rather different. He’s crazy about me, he’ll do anything I ask. If only we’d met years ago. Trouble is, I’ve not been feeling good lately. My doctor’s been frank – though he’s worried sick, since I helped him through a rough patch eighteen months back.
    So I’ve decided to go out in style. This very evening. In the London hotel, it seems appropriate. At seven-thirty they’ll find me dangling from a chandelier in the conference room. Out of reach, like I said.
    Let’s see. It must be eight by now. I bet you’re feeling smug, knowing I’ve paid my price. But wait. Can you hear a tap on the door?
    Good.
    The tapping’s getting louder, isn’t it? Don’t fret, he’ll stop in a minute. He’s got a copy of one of your keys, as a matter of fact.
    Sit down. Don’t waste your time with the telephone, he saw to that ten minutes ago when he slipped the envelope under the door.
    Have you guessed? It’s your private detective, come back to visit. Like me, I’m afraid he’s nothing left to lose. And your idea of how I had Stanley killed was too good to waste. Last time we spoke, my detective still hadn’t decided upon the ligature. A cord perhaps – or a length of chicken wire. What do you think it will be? Hear the door opening? His footsteps as he moves toward your living room? No? Try turning the volume on the TV down.
    And, by the way, are you still sitting comfortably?

Neighbours
    9 July
    This is better than sex.
    As a matter of fact, it’s
much
better than sex.
    I’m beginning to think it may even be better than watching television. And that’s saying something, as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m getting choosy. I need something extra, not the same old thing, time after time.
    I’m faithful to my favourites, of course I am.
Coronation Street, East Enders, Brookside
and
Emmerdale.
I don’t mind the Australian soaps, either. But lately I’ve had just as much pleasure from the real-life shows. You know, the inside story on life within a hotel, a shopping centre, a driving school. Seeing people who
actually exist
going about their everyday lives. Fly-on-the-wall programmes, they call them, or even docu-soaps. Utterly fascinating, I simply can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
    Yet now, it may be – it just may be – that I’ve stumbled across something that tops the lot.
    10 July
    They were at it again last night. Talk about hammer and tongs.
    He started it. I feel sorry for him, married to her ladyship, but I must