Concealed in the cupboard.

There is a sense of vague disturbance at the realisation that the true answer to my friend's query about when I last did any writing is 'the day before you showed me that astonishing short story that you'd written and that I know I can never, ever improve upon'. The answer I gave him was 'three weeks ago'. Possibly he can work it out for himself.

And you do know that I've looked at all your archives to discover your fantastic A-level results and university offers, don't you? And then my gallbladder burst.

My gallbladder is actually fine. Thank you.

I went to see the doctor when I first quit university and he diagnosed me as jealous of all the students who were doing better than me. I just remembered that and felt I ought to record it for posterity.

(Also I recall telling him that one of the reasons I quit was because I hated the width of the corridors in the humanities department in relation to their height, which makes it sound like a matter of feng shui. It does look an intensely peculiar reason when I type it out loud. For the record, I think the problem was more that I was in a mood that meant I could judge when a corridor was so inappropriately shaped that I had to run away from it. But actually I quite like the idea that I quit university because it wasn't aligned quite properly.)