"What," Graham said contemptuously, annoyed, "that tall bloke with the bleached hair in first year? He's thick,"

"Hmm, well," Slater said, bobbing his head in an arc - a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shake - "thick set, certainly, and not awfully bright, but God those shoulders. That waist, those hips! I don't care about his head; from the neck down he's a genius,"

"Idiot," said Graham.

"Trouble is," Slater mused, "he either doesn't realise what I'm up to, or he doesn't care. And he has this awful friend, called Claude... I keep telling him how earthy I think he is, but he hasn't got it yet. Now he really is thick. I asked him what he thought of Magritte the other day, and he thought I was talking about some girl in first year. And I can't get him away from Roger. I shall die if he's gay. I mean if he got there first. I'm sure Roger isn't really stupid, it's just his friend who's infectious,"

"Ha ha," Graham said. He always felt slightly uncomfortable when Slater talked about being gay, though his friend was rarely specific, and Graham was hardly ever directly involved - he had, for example, only ever met one of Slater's (supposedly many) lovers, at least as far as he knew.

"Do you know," Slater said, suddenly brightening, as they crossed John Street, "I've had this really good idea."

Graham gritted his teeth: "Well, what is it this time? Another new religion, or just a way of making lots of money? Or both?"

"This is a literary idea."

"If it's The Sands of Love, I've already heard it."