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On a distinctly drizzly Wednesday evening in February a friend of mine looked at me and said: ‘Only those who risk reaching too far, find out how far they can reach’ My first thought was ‘why is it that my friends speak in epigrams?’ followed by the rather acid judgement that this particular friend had just reached too far, and was about to discover quite how uncomfortable risking too much can be   My friend (whose real name I’ve chosen not to reveal, but let’s pick one at random and refer to him as Bill) was, if not drunk, certainly very, very relaxed, especially considering the situation The previous day had been a gloriously sunny one, London’s cruel annual spring joke – raising hopes before dashing them with a summer of drizzle I had certainly fallen for it, and in a greatly optimistic mood sent Bill a chirpy text message congratulating him on having his work published in the first edition of what was clearly going to become a literary review magazine of international scope and seriousness My message read (and this is important): ‘I’m afraid I’m busy tonight but it looks like I’ll see you tomorrow (I’ve just met the editor [of said magazine] and saw your name on the list of contributors)’   To this fairly innocuous message, I received the response: ‘Oh sweet Jesus’   Blind to the motive behind the panic I questioned his reaction The only response I received was: ‘Good god, the odds!!’   Now, call me naïve, but this did not start alarm bells ringing Nor did the fact that Bill was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the brief time we stayed at the launch Perhaps he was nervous about his piece, I thought, before considering his general confidence in his writing, and deciding that this was unlikely Maybe he was humbled by the hundreds of hipsters who were squeezed into the long, narrow room He had, after all, previously described himself as standing lemon-like amongst hipsters who were ‘all swaying to music only they could hear’