On a desktop halfway down the concourse, a telephone began ringing. With the reflex of the newsroom Louis walked over and picked it up. "Hello," he said, and for the first time, thrillingly: "Sunday Dispatch Magazine."

"Hello." It was a woman's voice, curiously halting and croaky.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm phoning about the recipe . . . in your supplement yesterday."

"The recipe? Ah, well, I'm afraid . . ."

"I've never heard of stuffing lemons with . . . sardines . . . and . . . I'm sure the quantities were wrong. You couldn't possibly have meant a pint of double cream . . ."

"I'm sorry, I don't . . ."

"My whole family's been sick all night," the voice croaked. "I'm only just able to come to the phone even now . . . A whole pint couldn't have been right . . . not with avocadoes . . . and sardines. We're all horribly ill, thanks to you . . . the dog worst of all . . . My husband says that if you don't publish an apology in your next issue, he's . . ."

"I'm afraid this is my first day here,"Louis said. "All I can do is take your number and ask someone to call you back." But with an exclamation, that could have been retching, the line went dead.

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