Jonathan Nash

Fittingly, Mills has fallen into his own atomic reactor.

Recently writing of a correspondent who'd concocted an ingenious plan to trap me into taking up public office (or something), Mills speculated on a campaign of cruel amusement, inventing red herrings he could arcing-wristingly despatch to the other to forestall vacumming the house. Photographs of me in the local free newspaper attending comedy venues, for example, or appearances on the Unqualified Frustrated Policemen In Charge Of Security Cameras Follow An Individual Around Town For The Entire Afternoon show.

Entering into the spirit of things, I concocted an unusually-attentive reader who had worked out all the clues scattered through AP and found out where I lived. Aghastness was writ large upon Mills's face like a literary nose.

Or possibly, of course, I look a fool for gullibly accepting Mills's belief in my outlandish tale. Secret irony day is a very dangerous day.

Reader Millington

You look a fool. You fool.