Waking to another lockdown morning with a hangover and low self-esteem, he decides to re-order the books on his shelves. So he does, in order of: those signed by authors, others signed personally to him, books he’d edited, five by lovers, two by wives, four by his mother. Then his own, all six of them; and finally, his Man Booker winner. But Rushdie had got the Booker of Bookers, no? Carey and Mantel had won it twice. ‘And where’s my Nobel Prize?’ He says, and feels even worse. Poor thing.