During a break in the night shift at the shreaded wheat factory, Sylvia Mattlocks husband sits in a nearby cafe. His cup is empty but he remains in his chair, sm- -oking a ciggertte, then, looking under the table, he remarks to his neighbours at the next table that he has a paper handkercheif under his table, and that he knew it was paper. From where I am sitting and watching the handkerchief looks totally realistic and I wonder why he said that, but I sit and say nothing as Mr Mattlock continues with a monolgue aimed at his neighbours unwilling; " I was working in somebody's loft the other day, when I found a patch of dry rot in the wall, behind it there was a packet of Persll automatic, still unused strffed there by someone.The price on It was ten shillings so you can t- -ell how long ago that was, been there for years it had.. . .but I bet you that it would be better than the stuff you buy nowadays for two pounds.! " He did not finish his speach in a fade out nor a grunt and then sillence as I would have guessed he would; the people opposite him were paying no attension,talki- -ng amongst themselves about the price of bus tickets compared with years ago, they had only heard Mattlock going on about Time and prices and had used it to insp- -irer their own talk. He was unconscious of the couples ignoring him but switched back to the paper handkerchief subject .right there under his table, .Trying to get them to look so as to satisfy his idea about everything not being as good as it was years ago.The couple went on in hushed tones about bus tickets. 3d/6 this and so on, oblivious to his talk, or with the intent to bore him into submission to their will.What ever the reason Mattlock was going to have none of it and , first stubbing out the ciggerette in—- -to a small tin foil tray that used to contain a custard tart, left the place in a huff, at being able to communic- ate with those people, as he could have; years ago. Years ago when every thing was built strong and to last . .and more realistically as well.He began to walk in a random fashion through the streets, although he still had to finish his shift, he wandered street after street of pa~ -per littered pavements until he came to north London's Cranley Gardens where he seemed to awake from his daze.He had been starring for some Time at a derelect house, burnt out windows and the doors bricked up, a ;• destroyed house charred, , .flashes of flea egg parasites . .wittled away edges... He heard in the night air the sound of a trumpet being blown by a learner or a child for the notes were long and erratic; wind ing madly in the dark air.The notes had a powerfull effect on him for now he saw a replay of the past before his dazed eyes, of the scene that had happ- -ened weeks before.A man is running out of the house trailing blackened sauce pan smoke behind him, flames bite chunks out of the upper windows, .now dissolving into the bricked up windows of the house.. .the trumpet sound ceased and with it the vision of the past, , he was thrown back into the present with a clang of steel door. He was hack in his home after running from the scene of strangeness, now sitting down to think about the last few hours and how different he had been behaving. His hands played involentarfy with the paper Rizzia packet turning the packet over and over in his hands mindless aid unaware, like the thoughts rotating Łn his mind.. . .unaware that anything was really different in any permanent way. The next night he wrote the following in his five year diary ,in the two middle pages of the book; 30th april 1993 and 1st may 1993; over three years too soon; Demon realism: the character is not really believable is it ? who do ttwy are, , no,, its too far fetched. .that couldnt happen . .could it ? I might have know that would happen, .had I expected the unusual:. .thats silly, .no one does that do they ? what is all this about ? thats ridiculas, .they shouldnt have shown that: its ruined t