Glenn stepped up on to the crackled mahogany stool, dislodging dust particles that were lit by the streaming evening sun. He reached for a faded cloth-bound book, that smelt of sandalwood and wood smoke, and he lifted it down from the shelf. He climbed off the stool, taking care to lead with his powerful left foot and avoiding the purring coiled cat on the rug by the fireside. He placed the book on to his desk, opened to the marked page and brushed aside bruschetta crumbs and charred incense flecks. He picked up his spectacles, flicked apart the arms and rubbed the lenses with a paisley-patterned silk square. And then he read, translating line after line into writing, the royal blue Quink ink creating loops of Latin on a foolscap page. One page completed, he placed the pen among a host of pencils, from 4H to 3B, including several well-used HB stumps in a highly-polished silver cup – a replica of the trophy that his team had won a season before when he had been awarded the Golden Boot.