‘Passport?’

‘Yes.’

‘Flight info?’

‘Yes.’

‘Euros?’

‘Yes.’

‘Underpants?’

The book glares at me. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ I say. ‘Remember Paris?’

‘We agreed not to bring that up.’ The book turns away, muttering inaudible curses. It pretends to go on an ‘errand’ to another part of the house.

While it is out of the room I check over its packing. It is slight, to say the least.

Two pens (one of them red), some pencils, a rubber and sharpener, and a large wodge of typed poems.

The book has put its head round the door. ‘What are these?’ I ask.

‘Oh, those. Those are just…you know. I thought we could look at…you know, if.’

‘No, I don’t know.’

The book walks over to me, calm for once. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I just thought.’ This is clearly as difficult for it as…