Fifteen years of thought and reding led me to the conclusion that I drew in the last instalment. Should I ever run into Petunia (from the first instalment) again. And, should we talk long enough for the subject to come up, I will be ready to pounce like a theoretical puma in a forest of hypothetical trees. Unfortunately, I don’t have several years to wait in the hope of bumping into her so about a week ago, in the interest of rounding off this introduction, I looked her up on Facebook. To my absolute horror, I discovered she had become an English teacher. I would have been happier if she was working developing chemical weapons or testing cosmetic products on animals. I would like to elaborate on her Saul-like conversion to literature: explaining in detail how my earlier, much less though out, defence of literature had sparked a passion for literature in her that was only rivalled in intensity by the unending physical pain she felt at the regret of dumping me. However, she ignored my fr...