His mouth was dry, his limbs a little shaky. He wasn’t sure why he had stepped into the British Museum. He stared at the Ancient Roman mosaic of Bacchus, God of Wine, clad in vine leaves and little else, reclining implausibly on a snarling tiger. He shook his head. Everyone has their own vision of the eternal, but he saw the God of Drink as a woman – ethereal and elemental, warm and welcoming, poised on the lip of a cliff. He had a strong presentiment of where he would be going when he stepped out into Great Russell Street.
Michael Bloor only discovered the exhilarations of short fiction after he retired