In a bar near The Old Vic a THEATRE BUFF is chatting to his friend, an ageing and slightly conservative DRAMATURG for a touring theatre company.

D: Madame Bovary, a play you say?

TB: That’s right.

D: Not possible. She’s a wonderful literary creation I’ll grant you, but it’s all internal, her thoughts and emotions, she hardly says a word.

Mr Timothy X Attack takes us to an imagined future (what other sort is there indeed?) Humankind seems to have made it’s way to the far flung corners of the galaxy, which intrepid adventures have necessitated the provision of some kind of beacon or lighthouse for the better exploitation of safe galactic interchange . . .