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Sting and Stung came into being in a jar of mustard, the very next morning after I dreamt of serpentine roads and devils. Had it been necessary to invent a realm from whence they might come forth – a couple of translucent, earnest‑looking blobs, faceless and ageless, and generally possessing no other quality save their existence – then that jar, of the kind Mum used to wash thoroughly as soon as the mustard had finished, for subsequent use as glasses, and thick, ugly, heavy‑duty glasses at that, then the jar upon which I was fixing eyes still dazed by sleep and dreams would have been by far the most appropriate...

 
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