Earlier in the summer, while completing (with infinite pain and difficulty) his entry form for the Duoshare Sparrow Masters, the knockout interpub darts competition in which he was doing so well now, Keith pondered and agonized for several days before filling in the section marked hobbies. He wanted to put darts and leave it at that. But darts was work. It would be like saying that his hobbies were cheating, burgling and receiving. Besides, he had in the past won two self-sufficiency awards from the British Darts Organization — darts bursaries, darts scholarships, as it were, to help him in his bid to go pro. He wasn't too clear on all this (and the cash grants had kept Keith self-sufficient for about fifteen minutes each in the turf accountants), but a struggler in the world of small businesses wouldn't tell you that his 'hobby' was expanding a timber-yard or running a fag shop, now would he? What, then, were Keith's hobbies? He couldn't put birds. It might get back to Kath. He couldn't put horses or walking Clive or going to the pub. Pool and fruit machines had, if little else, the stamp of authenticity ... He toyed with certain fictions: potholing, rallying, growing vegetables. But his pride rebelled against the imposture. Growing vegetables? You must be ... In the end he searched his soul for the last time, white-knuckled his grip on the biro, and put TV.