I went home at lunch, and lying on the doormat was a brown A4 envelope addressed to "Toby Morgan". Now, there's no-one of that name in our house, so I opened the envelope. There was a covering note, "Hi Toby. Here's my epistle, I'm not even sure what I think of it now" and about 50 typewritten pages, comprising what appeared to be a novella. Pretty good it was, too. But there was no return address or phone number.