Many of you will know that Kurt Vonnegut is my all-time favorite writer. I love absolutely every aspect of his now-departed being: I love his silliness (ting-a-ling), his seriousness (why, why, why?), even his physical presence. He was a gangling man, tall and thin, with big bug eyes, a long nose and a head full of big fat curls that were grey from the first day I read him, and long before that, of course. Of all the writers I have ever read, he has come closest to my understanding of Gandhi’s satyagraha – absolute truth – and he has also inspired me more than any other to put words onto paper. It is because of Vonnegut that I understand the two notions around fiction – that it is more honest than fact, and that fact is much stranger than fiction quite a lot of the time.