I can’t tell whether Armistead Maupin’s Michael Tolliver Lives is actually his best book, or only my favourite of his books. I read through the entire extant Tales of the City, along with Mirrorshades, one dark winter at Moira’s house in Newtown, indulging my customary lack of clue that it was my own future I was reading about.

Now Michael Mouse is hanging with a grrl sex journalist a la Annalee and marvelling that people are blogging about Ishi. It feels as if Armistead has walked into my world, whereas in fact it was I that walked (joyfully, thankfully) into his.

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