A theme runs through it, this and that and the other.

One day, in the early morning mist, we heard he sound of a car and shouts of arrival and excitement.

June, George and Chantilly had driven through a star-mapped sky until that mist obscured all markers, navigating as if sea-faring islanders, and arrived at our, creaking, front door.

We expected them later in the month so had not stocked up with the brandy June liked, the fake champagne George enjoyed and the sweet white wine Chantilly loved.

But we gave them coffee and alarmingly munchable biscuits.

Then, and only then, we set to work on the jointly-penned novel of which we wrote one chapter a year.