‘You rang earlier. What can I do for you on this bright and sunny day?’ ‘You might think it’s bright and sunny, Sam,’ he groaned back at me....‘But I’ve got myself in a bit of a pickle, and could do with some help mate.’ What? Sam got himself into a pickle? Another one? Nothing new there. I could just picture the poor tortured soul, sitting there without a hair in place and his big, black-framed glasses somewhat askew. With any luck, since it was the beginning of the week, then his socks might. .. Beneath were these words:When I saw about Living On Land and poems and read your stuff I thought you would understand so I sent you this, only it's not fiction it's real so don't publish my name or email PLEASE!Intrigued, and wishing to publish the poem – it fitted our name perfectly – I wrote back saying: Of course I won't, but can you give me a name of some kind, a nom-de-plume, something to identify you?He wrote: Alright, use Wendy. When we were little, my sister insisted on being called. More

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