FOREWORD Forever Fifteen was born of a dream I had in 2002, a dream that was part nightmare. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. I shall have to discover one suitable. “I liked him, and I never undeceived him. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over.
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