Cages.

William is writing a novel. It is called Cages. Or Caged and Cage. He can't decide. It is a tell-all memoir of a life lived in captivity as well as a much-needed critique of the oeuvre of Nicolas Cage. William has only seen two Nicolas Cage films: G-Force and Peggy Sue got Married. He also saw the trailer for The Wicker Man and it blew his mind. I have offered to lend him some further dvds but he remains adamant that he and Nic have a special bond, forged by William's living in the versatile actor's surname and William doesn't need to watch any more Nicolas cage films than he already has.

He won't let me read any of the memoir though. And this is worrying, because he keeps glaring at me in a funny way. A way that says "I have made up some hardcore stuff about you in order to attract a readership and you better keep schtum about all the abusing you haven't been doing or I'll see you in hell missy. Also how adorable is Nicolas in PSGM? SOOOO adorable. Kathleen Turner was a lucky woman." William, like Laurence Olivier before him, can say many things with a single burning glance. He would make a great Hamlet.

Addendum- an extract from Cages..?

(found while cleaning out his cage.)

I was, by now, living in my own filth, surrounded by what can only be described as barn dried hay and newspaper. It was the Sunday Times. I refuse to read the Sunday Times because of Murdoch. She knew that yet she thwarted me with its news and information. I knew so little about the outside world. She rarely spoke, unless it were to argue with me over whether or not the guinea pigs in G-Force were realistic. "If you're so unhappy, why don't you escape from your cage in some sort of high-tech harness?" she was constantly asking me.

I had no words to tell her that I could not.

Guinea pigs can not do that in real life.

I am William.

My life is real and, lo, it has been stolen.

Other than that though, G-Force was an enjoyable movie. I liked the bit where the Guinea pig kicked the dog. Someday I would like to kick a dog. Nicolas Cage is awesome. He does not have a h in his name. Other people sometimes do. Nicholases. Or Henries, but I was thinking of the name Nicholas.

What Nic and I have in common is that he too is Caged, both by his surname and by the Media. Curse the Media!

Will we never be free?

I used to dream in my cage, of the day I would be free. Me and Nicolas, strolling down sunset, him with a coffee, me with some dandelion leaves. Through slurps and munches we would discuss guinea pigs, Elvis and the bit in the trailer for the Wicker Man where he is all "OMG! bees!!"

Just before we parted ways, he would turn to me and say "William...." so wistfully it would almost break my heart. But the heart of a guinea pig is made of stern stuff, and so (though I wanted to take him in my arms and gently nibble his stubble to see how it tasted) I would punch him manfully on the shoulder and say "You did good, Kid." And Cage would smile, his expressive face transfixed with joy, sheer joy. And it would be angelic, like it was when he played and Angel in the film City of Angels. I haven't seen that film, and after that moment, that sweet and to be savoured moment I would no longer need to. Mentally deleting it from my Netflix queue, I would bask in Cage's light.

And in that moment....freedom.

Attached to this extract was a hastily scrawled notlet:

In the next Chapter, you turn to drugs.

Your move, Sullivan.