My husband is a politician, my friends are human rights activists  and artists and musicians and teachers and doctors and nurses and in their lives they do  important things.

I mean they shape and influence lives and that’s good news for  us all because no way in Hell would you want me to shape the world you live in.

Trust me on that, I spent all week studying alien limb syndrome – it’s a syndrome where people are convinced that their own limb ( their hand for example) does not belong to them and is controlled by an outside force.

I pay attention to stuff like that because I write.

I write sometimes about Werewolves and once I wrote a story about a woman waiting for a bus and she is positive, and knows that the man standing next to her, the one wearing a blood red tie is the Devil himself.

She knows it, he knows it and they both know it at the same time and at the end of the story he goes on he wishes her a good day and she wishes him the same and the Devil goes onto do Devilish things and she goes to work just like it was any other day of the week.

That’s what I do for fun, that’s what I do and most of the time I think it’s important.

Until recently.

Now I wonder.