11th January 2003. d) won the vote (95.2%). Nevertheless I'm going to Spain to see my family who are there, and to work on something new for 2003. Just spent the morning being chased around Hackney City Farm by some hard-looking geese. There's a memorial poster there to Stanley (the bronze turkey) who tragically passed away just before Christmas. Hmm. ~ send in the spies and take out the inner circle that's what i say do you know anyone at all who thinks iraq is a good idea i don't know a single person i know where ms dynamite lives no way lets go round maybe she's having a party solaris hasn't dated 2001 has dated a lot but solaris hasn't isn't a dakari supposed to be slushy not like a slush puppy just not watery where do you work work i'm doing A levels ~

4th January 2003. Happy New Year. A word on these characters, finally. Maybe as this was written and published in real time - nice for slow readers - it's hard to say where they're based. They've ended up a musical chairs of imaginative spaces. Spaces which I have no right to claim, never mind turn into a kind of burlesque. The narrative sticks have to fall somewhere, things cross around and mutate. A total turn of the screw at the end, no confusion. Poll Vote: In 2003 DPS should a) Go off-line and do something in the approved fashion, b(v0.1) A sequel, b(v0.2) Something different, drop the gags and faff, c) Get a life (watch the Cheeky Girls), d) Join the Cheeky Girls (every band should have a Bez). Vote vote vote.

21st December 2002 Happy Christmas, thanks for reading and apologies of the timetabling of the damned. By now you'll have had your fill of dirty dancing (staggering sideways around wotsername from Human Resources). Come grope something lovely with your bloodshot eyes and ruined mind, my friend. Further chapter ahoy in the workless week between the Viennetta and New Year. Post-fiction options: (a) 60s 70s and 80s Nite at the Drum And Monkey (hell yeah) (b) a house party in Kentish Town, or (c) Vic Twenty djing at the Garage. Hmm. Mentioned Paris. Max Beckmann: great to watch progress, pure neurosis before he came to Paris, then he seemed to get flashy and started acting the painter. Out went the tawdry sex in war-torn brothels, in came sauve self-portraits replete with bow tie. Then went to an exhibition of author's bedrooms, no less - joined a throng around Marcel Proust's actual bona fide scratcher - nicely wrought iron affair with deep blue sheets - picturing him all tucked up and remembering times past. Which could be New Year (d).

Cuban Turtlebean Soup. Chop and fry one onion, two garlic cloves and a celery stick (with leaves) until soft. Add three pints of decent vegetable stock and 225g of turtlebeans or black beans (soaked overnight). Simmer for one and a half hours. Remove half the beans and a little stock and blend. Add this blend, three tablespoons of dry sherry, the juice of one lemon, black pepper and half a teaspoon of cayenne pepper to the pot, simmer for another 15 minutes. Fill four bowls, grate with a decent cheese. Grill as French Onion, serve with homemade-if-you're-bothered salsa and crusty bread.

7th November 2002. Apologies for the dead air. Unfair to dedicated droppers-in. Either the Queen's dark forces at work, early separation anxiety or sick of the sight of my own voice. Guess that the key to a well-planned serialisation would be to have prepared a few enstallments in advance, to cushion such eventualities. But. More discipline* next year. (Year). Where are those pesky songs recorded in a bunker? Uploading snags, I'll try again when I get back next week. (Hand of Fatima-covered apartment block in Belleville, Paris. You thought this story was all made up. Hopefully seeing some exhibitions - Velasquez and Max Beckmann. Modigliani maybe. Can't decide if his mesmeric, aquiline portraiture is passion-fuelled, or the work of a one-trick turtle. There's a short sharp career for you, I suppose. If you die young at least your work was consistent.)

* Monday. 9:00 am. The Ministry Of Fiction, Whitehall. Speculative Structure Testing Division. "Good morning, Mr Loudermilk." "Good morning, Mr Clapwick." "Any closer to nailing that Nabokovian mirror-trick?" "By lunchtime, I suspect. Nice weekend?" "Quoits with Hermione Quackhandle. She was before your time. Successfully satirised the reader as virtual witness through an oblique form of internal trialogue." "Excuse me, Mr Clapwick. My office?" "Lord Beaverboard?" "Yes, this curriculum vitae of yours. I've had it retrospectively verified and it's revealed itself to be entirely made up. Is this how people imagine they'll secure a position at the MOF these days?" "I thought it would help, sir. Hit the ground running, as it were."