There is a strange man on my sofa.

A cowboy.

A shirtless cowboy, no ­less—thick, ­sun-burnished muscles on full display, marked with bruises and what look to be smudges of charcoal.

I don’t scream. I always thought I’d scream in a scenario such as this (i.e., home intrusion, sudden appearance of cowboy in living room, possible upcoming murder of self). Instead, I grab hold of the nearest thing I can to cover my own nakedness.

Of course, it’s the red spider beret I just purchased from Mrs. Casablancas. One of the spindly pipe cleaner spider legs stabs my inner thigh. Ow.

“Get out, please,” I say to the stranger, my trembling voice a good two octaves higher than usual. “I…I don’t know what you’re doing in my house, what you came here for, but you’re in the wrong place and you need to leave right now.” How did he even get in here? I glance at the front door, closed and locked from the inside, as always. The window is open, but my flat is on the fourth floor of the building. ­Did…did he scale the wall?

The man’s eyes meet mine, unreadable beneath the shadow of his Stetson. He blinks like he just woke up, quickly averting his gaze from my naked form, which strikes me as an unusually respectful move for a home intruder with murder in mind. Maybe he’s not a ­murderer... Perhaps he’s a burglar?

“If—if you’re a burglar, you’d have much better pickings about a mile down the road,” I blurt, my words tripping over one another. “I’m just a writer. Everything of value that I own is purely sentimental.” I point at my TV. “You can have my television if you like? It’s pretty old, though. No OLED capabilities. They probably have much ­higher-spec electrical equipment at the houses over in Marylebone. Lots of jewellery too, I bet. Silver tableware, genuine Birkins, if that’s what you’re after. There’s this one very ­fancy-looking house on—”

I clamp my mouth shut as it occurs to me that this is not the time or the situation to try to be the most helpful person in the room.