“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. I went into the hut and rummaged around in the ants for one of the monkey’s most prized achievements. It consisted of a lot of twigs mashed up to a pulp, flattened out into sheets, and then held together with something that had previously held a cow together. I took my Filofax outside and flipped through it while the sun streamed through the trees behind me from which some ruffed lemurs were calling to one another. “Well,” I said, sitting down on the step again, “I’ve just got a couple of novels to write, but, er, what are you doing in 1988?”
Adams is such a clever writer, even in the non-fiction sphere.
