I spotted the black notebook lying in a side street of run-down terraced houses. Curious as to their contents, I picked it up from the gutter to take a look. There on the first page my childhood home address stood out amongst mundane lists and notes about building supplies.

I flicked through the other pages and then saw my own name scribbled in the margins. Most curious of all was a raised section of a page, about the size of a postage stamp. Touching it activated a sound file – of my own voice, explaining that I moved to Mexico when I was 18 and that my academic career was a complete illusion.

This was all terribly shocking – so much so that I felt that I could only share the story of my discovery with one person. BJ was my confidante. After this revelation, it was my intention to never mention it again, and do my best to forget about all it.

However, the next time that I was on campus and sitting next to FR, it struck me that her handwriting was very similar to that in the notebook. When I hinted that I had been terribly upset on finding a multimedia notebook in the street, she confessed that this was all of her making. She thought that I would be delighted with her mysterious and imaginative hand-made retirement present.