Wade drummed her painted fingernails on the steering wheel of the car. She hated this; a darkened car park, waiting for a mysterious informant, grinding her teeth because this was the week she quit smoking. She could feel her life descending into cliche. She felt flattened out, two dimensional, as if she was nothing more than one of the grainy telescopic lens photographs that her newspaper would have printed, and not a real person at all.


Somebody asked me about hypnotizing chickens recently, having heard that you can hypnotise a chicken by dragging your finger down its forehead, down its beak and onto the ground, so that the chicken gets fixated on that spot and is hypnotised.