That night Peter Bowman brought in the laundry himself. The sheets were dry. Some moisture sort refuge in the inner pockets of his jeans, but a slight dampness was only to be expected, enjoyed even. Appreciated as a momentary difference. It was a sharper sensation than the dry sheets. The sheets offered only smooth dryness. The jeans had far more character. This is not always the case of course. The situation is sometimes reversed. Especially when silk is involved. Silk jeans are just not good at all. When you have silk jeans on your line, go with the sheets every time.

Having brought in the laundry, he suddenly realised that his Auntie Em must be dead, or at least approaching that state. He'd never been able to bring the laundry in by himself before. Auntie Em was always out there the second the last drip of moisture evaporated. Often she blew on the laundry to get it to dry more rapidly. 'Ah, the poor old darling', he thought to himself. 'I'll have to check on her a bit later.' A moments grief was replaced by a feeling of satisfaction. At last he was a man. Free of the confines of family and friends, he folded his sheets himself, and was proud.

He decided he'd better check on Auntie Em. Peter had lived with her ever since his parents had died. They had been Literary Scientists who had attempted an experiment in ejecting God from a complicated machine. Out of nothing, likely as not. Apparently God had objected to such treatment. All that was left at the end of the experiment was a highly suspicious pile of ablatives covered in green fur. This was largely taken as proof that God didn't like Latin, probably having been forced to study it as a child in order that he might decree Fiat Lux with the authority of somebody who wasn't wondering what soap had to do with it all. Many remarked on this, but only briefly and in hushed tones in case God overheard and decided to do something about it. They were being overly cautious of course. God doesn't mind people gossipping about Him so long as they do it in public and don't hide away in the back shed. Peter's parents never had names as they had always been very poor and so unable to afford them. Besides that they only ever appeared in a single novel. This was very economical. Keeping them in a single paragraph saved even more money for the wild women and whiskey that is always required for some reason involving ducks. The ducks will not tell you why, but feel free to ask them. Especially in the presence of large crowds of people.

'Auntie Em?', Peter called around his aunts bedroom door. 'I brought in the laundry. Are you dead then?'

'Not yet, dear. I'll be done in a minute.'

'Oh good then. Should I call the undertakers?' Peter was always a most obliging lad.

'No thanks dear. Already done. Come in and sit by me bed. Luckily I have just enough time left to tell you everything you need to know as you travel down that great highway.'

'Ah that's grand then.' Peter always lapsed into a broad Irish brogue when talking to his Auntie Em. He was not quite sure why this happened. Nobody in the family had ever been Irish, as far as he knew. If they had been, they kept very quiet about it.

Peter Bowman walked across and sat down in the old rocking chair. The new rocking chair had developed an eccentric tilt. It was difficult to prevent falling off, and Peter felt that the moment deserved a modicum of dignity. He even went so far as to wedge his toes in under the rocker to prevent excessive moment on his part.

'So you'd be after dying then Auntie Em?' Peter really should learn to keep his accent under control in emotional circumstances.

'Yes boy. You've learnt to fold sheets and collect the laundry and so now you're a man like your father and grandmother before you. So you won't be wanting an dull old woman like me getting in your way.'

'Well, I have to admit that you've taken the words right out of my mind Auntie. I've been meaning to talk to you about this problem for some time.'

'I was right then - that was arsenic in the tea!' The pair laughed together gently. Peter had never been very good at judging the correct quantity of poison to use on such occasions. He was all thumbs when it came to poisoning people. It was a family joke, his lack of ability in this area, and always guaranteed to raise the spirits.

'Well, there was really no need for you to go to all that trouble. I always knew that this day would come. The day when you would become a man and I must step aside so that you could complete your life's work. I'll be gone in a few minutes, and never will darken these pages again.'

'But Auntie Em, if the arsenic didn't get you, how are you planning to die?' Peter wondered if he'd have to go and fetch the axe from behind the kitchen door. He was a bit concerned that the spider might still be there and he wasn't sure if he could cope with it.

'Not to worry boy. I'm about to die due to an overdose of narrative necessity. It's a good way to go. I must remember to recommend it to all my friends.'

Peter was so impressed at his Aunts generously imminent demise that he burst out in a flood of silent laughter. This pleased Auntie Em greatly, to see her gift so very much appreciated. She smiled gently.

'Ah Peter, you make me so proud. Before I go, I've got one thing to say to you: make of your life a brilliant piece of work, such that it could hang in the Loo and not embarrass us all. That's all I ask, most dearest of nephews.'

With this parting message, Peter's aunt collapsed over the counterpane, and was never heard from again. Except of course for the funeral, which I can say was a most lavish affair, involving numerous chimpanzees and not a few fireworks. The old girl went out with style, which is more than you can say for most of us. I attended of course, as an old friend of the family I felt it to be a duty. Not a burdensome duty at all. I enjoyed the affair thoroughly. After the coffin was whisked away for burial (nobody felt obliged to tear themselves away from the canapes to the rather gruesome business of dirt throwing) Peter approached me.

'Look here old chap. I've known you for my entire life. Well, you've known me I suppose, but that's alright. I wonder if you would consent to provide me with a continuation. I'm hoping that things need not end here in this reception hall in a shower of balloons and confetti, If you catch my drift.' Peter studied me with some concern on his face.

Having made Peter ask me so politely, and understanding entirely the workings of his mind, I of course reassured him.

'My friend Peter. Please remove any notion of disappearance from your mind. I have already undertaken to narrate your Interesting and Informative Work of Life to the good people examining you closely at this very moment. As the host of this funeral, it would hardly be polite for me to release the hounds and chase them all off before they even knew your middle name.'

Peter was momentarily taken aback at this. He blinked.

'I have a middle name? Auntie never said.'

'Well of course you do my lad.' I patted him familiarly on the shoulder. 'What do you think of Eustace?'

'Eustace? I think he's a boring little pile of radishes. He's only come to the funeral in the hope of looting the coffin when I was looking the other way. Fat chance of that!'

'I see. Well then your middle name is Simon.' I felt that I had dodged that with remarkable elan. I began humming a victory dirge (a march is out of place at a funeral, no matter how good the canapes).

'Oh. Simon?' Peter Bowman looked rather upset at this and began to clip his toe nails. I took this to mean he was somewhat unhappy with the situation. 'I was hoping it was rather more dashing, you see.' Peter began to pick his nose. 'I've always felt that I was the type of chap to have a dashing middle name, that's all.'

'Very well. Your middle name is -, and that's the end of the matter as far as I am concerned. Unless you should choose to bribe me be promising to perform some sort of miracle throughout the course of your life.'

Peter-Bowman bowed his head. 'Throughout? Would that not mean that I would have to continuously perform this miracle, every minute of every day, sort of thing?'

'I expect it does, at that. Good luck.' With that I turned on my heel and strolled off towards a rather charming plate of cheese that unfortunately went decidedly off before I got there and proceeded to beat me about the nose.