As the graceful fibers of her bow caressed the violin’s strings, she played songs about her mysterious nighttime companion. She would watch him writ...ng furiously by the flicker of a single candle, night after night. At first she thought dreamily that perhaps he was writing love letters to a lover, but she never saw anyone visit him. Month by month he wrote linger and longer into the night. She then played songs about his passionate writing. Often she imagined him to be a prolific but tragic. "Vanessa, Vanessa Nightingale." Her laugh tinkled like a silver bell. "Not related to The Nightingale, unfortunately." We shook hands and she accompanied me to the lift. "I hope to see you tomorrow, then, Mister Desmond." Des," I said as the lift arrived. She gave me a smile which brightened the corridor, and then swept away, not so much with a swish of starched knickers but with the sibilant whisper of silken lingerie.I took a taxi to the Navigator pub, and had finished a tasty plateful of. More

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