Some days you don't feel that you're real at all; everything is contingent. Today I'm sitting on a plane, in a lost corner of an aerodrome: outside there's frayed concrete and tumbled weeds, the day is grey. We're waiting, because there's fog at our destination: even now aeroplanes are nervous about fog.
Across the aisle there's an editor, a woman with glasses on a string round her neck. She's reading a manuscript. The front of it doesn't mention an author; there's just one word: Londonstani. We're going to a book fair.
Then we're tilting up and almost straight away the grey turns to bright solid blue, and in the centre of the window the moon, saying to me as always, Hello. Here I am.

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