The blue and white check shirted man returned again last night.

We sat opposite each other, this time at an outside, weathered wooden, sturdy-slatted table.   The sun was on my back and I had before me a pad of foolscap wide-lined and margined paper, alongside which was an untidy pile of a dozen or so already-written sheets.   The writing was mine, almost:   I’d used a fine-line smoothly-functioning black felt tip pen and he congratulated me on “writing” but I was unsure whether he…