Patrick, Patrick McGoohan

I am ninety years old. I am sitting in my favourite chair, the one by the window overlooking the horizon of the Suffolk coastline. Due to soil erosion, the coast is now on my doorstep. At my side is my granddaughter, whom was named after her mother, my daughter. The Younger is taking time out of her busy schedule as Empress of the Restored Empire of Anglia to tell me stories about the world.

She tells me that my debut novel has just sold its billionth(!) copy, setting a new record for book sales. She tells me that the Lovatt art exhibition, bringing together for the first time in five decades all of my paintings and sculptures, has been a huge success, bringing together political and religious leaders of all races, religions and creeds together in harmony. She tells me that former writing partner has died, penniless and destitute and unknown to the world. This makes me happier than the declaration of world peace being announced in my name.

Content that the world is healed, I close my eyes, accepting the call from Beyond.

As my eyes grow heavier, I see Patrick McGoohan’s bearded, spectacled face looking back at me.

My day is ruined. 

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