This is a story about a trial that never took place. The prosecuting counsel wasn’t a nine-foot high vulture wearing what looked like a budgie as a wig; the defence counsel wasn’t short and roly-poly and didn’t wear a huge bright-blue-rinse wig. The defendant wasn’t called Norah the Nose, the litigant wasn’t known as Edgar The Ears. The judge wasn’t called Judge Beak. The jury did not include a Quiet American, Miss Strawberry Mousse, The Major, Hugo The Accountant, Miss F, Miss F’s Mother, Mr Sleepy, Vicar Preachy, Mrs Baggs, Mrs Plum, a Prim Maiden Aunt, Clowns named Clyde and Bonnie, or a Nun With Guitar who didn’t speak in a deep Russian accent and didn’t wear Goth make-up and tight-fitting sequinned habits which didn’t shimmer with thousands of blinking, winking dots. The narrator did not fall in love with the Nun With Guitar who wasn’t and hadn’t.And it’s only ever … 11 … 12 … … 14 … 15 …There never is a … 13 …