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least I hope so. So each day I shall write not less than ten pages. If I can't finish the sentence I've started or if I get bored with it, I shall write telegrammese. But of course I shall only put proper sentences in my novel. So here we go!
    'But before I start, I must tell the story of Spot, the dog. It's got nothing to do with my family but it's a very fine story and shows the moral character both of the dog and of the English people who looked after it. Anyway, it's always possible I'll be able to make use of it in my novel too. A couple of days ago, I read in the Daily Telegraph (I buy it from time to time so as not to lose touch with England) that Spot, a black-and-white mongrel, was in the habit of waiting for his master every evening at six o'clock at his bus-stop at Sevenoaks. (Too many ats. Rephrase.) Now one Wednesday evening his master did not get off the bus. Spot did not budge from the bus-stop and waited by the side of the road all night in the cold and fog. A passing cyclist, who knew him and remembered seeing him a little before six the previous evening, noticed him again the next morning at eight, still sitting in the same place, patiently waiting for his master to come, the pet. The man on the bike felt so sorry for Spot that he shared his sandwiches with him and then pedalled off to inform the local inspector at the Sevenoaks RSPCA. The matter was looked into and it was learned that Spot's master had fallen down dead the •day before in London of a heart attack. The paper gave no further details.
    'I was terribly upset by the suffering of the poor little dog who had waited there fourteen hours for his master. So I sent a telegram to the RSPCA (actually, I am a Patron) saying that I was prepared to adopt Spot the dog and that they could send him to me by air at my expense. The same day I got a reply: "Spot adopted." I telegraphed back: "Spot adopted by reputable person? Send details." The answer, which came in a letter, was priceless. I shall copy it out to show just how marvellous the English are. This is. how it ran. "Dear Madam, In reply to your query, I am pleased to be able to inform you that Spot has been adopted by His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of All England, who is, in our view, a perfectly reputable person. Spot ate his first meal in the Archbishop's Palace with relish. Yours sincerely."
    'But now: My Family and Me. I was born Ariane Cassandre Corisande d'Auble. The Aubles are very top-drawer in Geneva. They came from France originally to join up with Calvin in 1560. Our family has provided Geneva with scientists, moral thinkers, frightfully distinguished, tight-lipped bankers, and a gaggle of Protestant ministers and moderators of the Venerable Company. And there was one ancestor who did something scientific with Pascal. Genevan nobility ranks second only to the English aristocracy. Grandmama was an Armiot-Silly-oh. There are the Armiot-Silly-ohs, who are very comme ilfaut, and the Armyau-Billy-ohs, who are definitely not. The second names, Silly-oh and Billy-oh, don't really exist at all, of course: they are used for convenience, so there's no need for anyone to go to the bother of spelling the last letters of Armyau and Armiot, which sound exactly the same. It's a shame, but our name is dying out. All the Aubles have snuffed it except Uncle Agrippa, who is not married and therefore without issue. And if I have children some day, they'll only be Deumes.
    'Now I must say something about Daddy, Mummy, my brother Jacques and my sister Éliane. Mummy died when she bore Éliane. I'll have to change that sentence in the novel, it sounds silly. I don't remember anything about Mummy very clearly. She doesn't look very nice in her photos, her face very stern. Daddy was a minister and a professor of theology at the University. When he died, we were still very young: Éliane was five, I was six and Jacques was seven. The maid said Daddy was in heaven and that scared me. Daddy was very