J.

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  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  Snnnnrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttt

  Hckkkkknhhhnnnkkkk

  Bloody hell. Somebody's snoring. Inconsiderate bastard.

  Grrgghhhhrrghrrgg tllap tllap tllap.

  Snnnnuuurrrrgggggg

  Shit! It's me!

  Veda Jenkins sits bolt upright, pink with embarrassment. Even if the people around her have not heard the first few snortles, they have certainly heard the last. She glares around her, utters a sharp Tutttt and mutters "Some people. Unbelievable."

  Stifling a yawn, she curses her Editor again and glares balefully at the stage. Two men in doublets are talking in such hoarse, low whispers that the words are barely discernible. As she strains to catch what they're saying, someone behind her bellows:

  A wheel-chaired man twitches his tartan and hisses a hush. Veda glances over her shoulder. A young man three rows from the back has a podgy pink hand cupped round his blubber-lipped mouth and bawls once again: