You arrive on time, with your portfolio, and knock nervously on the study door. "Come in" you hear a gruff voice say. You walk in and there I am, sitt...ng behind my desk in my book-lined study. Tweed jacket, white shirt, steel-rimmed glasses. Mid forties, you think, but in good shape. You hesitate in the doorway. "Well don't just stand there, girl," I growl. "Sit down." You cross the room and sit in the soft, aged brown leather armchair which faces my desk. "It, it's an honour to meet you. Virgil was a fucking Roman. It's not my fault you're a cultural philistine. Ignorantia non excusat." "If you don't stop being a bitch and tell me the story, you can do this stupid thing all by yourself. Understood?" "Fine." So?" Fine. You're Orpheus, son of somebody and somebody, recipient of Apollo's lyre which you are incomparably gifted at playing, you were an Argonaut and sailed with Jason, out-seduced the Sirens with your lyre, returned home and married Eurydice, me, who then promptly gets. More

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