“It’s Terry,” said Terry. “‘Ere. That [story] you sent me. Are you doing anything with it?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I think I know what happens next. Do you want to sell it to me? Or write it together?”
“Write it together,” I said, because I was not stupid, and because that was the nearest I was ever going to get to Michaelangelo phoning to ask if I wanted to paint a ceiling with him.