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modern supermarkets. Refrigerated counters as far as the eye can see, including, incidentally, Parma hams costing thousands of kroner, cheeses as big as houses and no doubt a great work environment where people matter to each other and are committed to their workplace. And he’s in a quandary. He’s got a lot to lose, but what are the chances of anyone finding out, and anyway he likes moose meat. In a way, there’s no arguing with moose.
    He looks around to make sure none of his staff is close enough to take note of what he’s going to say. What are you after? he says.
    I say I’m after several items, but the most important thing is to set up a milk deal. A milk deal? he says. I nod. I, that is, my organs and cells, in short, my body, need a good litre of skimmed milk a day, I say. Therefore I’d like to find, every Monday and Thursday morning, when the shop opens at seven, three and four cartons respectively of skimmed milk placed outside the stockroom, for example between the waste skip and the wall.
    Why skimmed milk of all things? he asks.
    My good man, I say, skimmed milk represents the peak of human achievement to date. Any idiot has always been able to get ordinary cow milk, I say, but the leap up to skimmed milk requires a stroke of brilliance and sublime separation technology, which has only been made possible in modern times. And, in fact, I fear that humankind will progress no further. Skimmed milk will probably always reign supreme. But it does give us something to aspire to.
    Skimmed milk ennobles mankind.
    How many weeks is this supposed to go on for? he asks. As many as necessary, I say. Necessary for what? he asks. Time will tell, I say. And also I need some batteries and a few other small items from the shop. How much meat are we talking here? he asks. You can have what I’ve got in the sack here today, up front, and if this deal continues after Christmas, you’ll get more. Done, he says, and gives me his hand.
    This is great. It’s a victory for the hunter-gatherer culture. Knife-slaughtered moose is exchanged for milk and other consumer goods. This is a breakthrough.
    Maybe the world can still be saved.
    Inside the shop I meet my wife of all people.
    She’s usually at work at this time of day, but obviously not today. She has her reasons, I suppose.
    Hi there, I say.
    You look dreadful, she says.
    I’m not exaggerating when I say my wife thinks it’s strange that I’m living up in the forest now. She doesn’t think much of it, it seems. I don’t blame her. I don’t know that I think much of it myself. My father had just died and been buried and my mother and my sisters and I had sorted out all the practical details and I was out cycling. That was in the springtime. And it was a joy to cycle in the forest again after a long winter. Of course I cycle all year. To work and home again. I’m a cyclist. Maybe I am a cyclist first and foremost.  No road conditions can hold me back. In winter I use studded tyres. I’ve got a helmet. Cycling gloves. Specially designed pants and jackets. A cycle computer. Lights. I cycle four thousand kilometres a year. And I think nothing of snapping off window screen wipers when cars don’t behave. I bang on bonnets. I bang on side windows. I shout myself hoarse and I’m not frightened when motorists stop and want to have a go at me. I argue them into the ground, sticking to my rights as a cyclist. And I move around fast. Much faster than cars. Best of all is the morning rush hour. For example, down Sognsveien, across Adamstuen and on down Thereses gate and Pilestredet. There are loads of cars and often several trams. The trams stop in the middle of Thereses gate and as there’s almost always oncoming traffic, the cars have to stop too, but I pull the bike up onto the pavement, steer well to the right of those about to get on the tram and shoot out again onto the road four to five metres in front of the tram and with plenty of time to spare before the tram sets