Alfonso Picasso

"Give me your attention!" Alf cried. "Please! Without it, I might die; it is that important."

A gunshot sounded, startling the audience of fifty from its disinterestedness — followed by a slightly hysterical male voice from the rear shouting out: "Enough attention for you there, matey?"

Lucy, in the front row, stood up and smiled. "I do love you, Alf."

Standing on the beach of the small spit of an island, Alf whispered back, "But you know me not."

Then looking down he saw, written in the sand: 'YOU ARE ALONE' — AND turning about, he found that he was.

Sitting in the sand, bottle of wine in hand, Alf took a long hard swallow, followed by a fit of gagging — which red was wont to make him do.

The next morning, on the Northern Line, a flash-mob of fourteen jumped onto Alf's tube carriage at Tufnell Park Station — all of whom were dressed in black, and carrying a musical instrument, although for some it was just a pair of finger cymbals.

Lucy, one of the group, cello in hand, sat down next to Alf and said, emphatically, "You never cry ... at funerals, weddings, sad movies, the birth of our children ... not a single tear." Then she turned, raised her bow, and led the mob in a soulful rendition of Barbara Allen.

At work, Alf tried to keep his plough horse moving in a straight line — but it was no use as distant thunder kept spooking the beast.

That night at the club, Sir Edmond, a bit tipsy, cornered Alf in the billiards room. "Listen, old chap, I know you've had a rough go of it, but ... well, you come from sturdy stock ... pull yourself together, man!"

Back on the spit the next morning, Alf, kneeling, rubbed two handfuls of wet sand together — then rinsed them off in the surf. "How had it all gone so wrong?" he wondered.