It's cold here, he wrote, although it's probably colder where you are, so I'm not going to dwell on it. The kids were watching cartoons, and sausage and lentil soup bubbled on the stove. He lay on the couch, thinking of the alternate history novel he had planned but not written, in which George Orwell had faked his death and returned to London to set up as a private eye in the East End. ERIC B. INVESTIGATES.... It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then there was another alternate history he had not even planned, in which Alan Turning faked his death to set up a school for troubled gay superheroes. In Surrey.
He walked to the kitchen. He was troubled by pop culture. He wasn't even sure if it was still referred to as pop cultures, with or without quotes. It used to all be about Avril Laverne, and her feigned punky toughness and temporary refusal to show some skin, but then things had changed. He thought about writing a novel in which she faked her death to become a private detective, then looked in the refrigerator for a beer.