Of Chief Concern to Fyodor.

All the room was silent.

And then.

"Why isn't he reading me?" said a frustrated voice which emanated from the Dostoevsky novel sitting on the bed.

More silence.

"Its 10:30 in the morning!" the voice continued, somewhat panic-stricken. "The time for fine literature is upon us! Let us read, read I say!"

An impatient sigh came from the other side of the bedroom.

"I utterly fail to understand it," the hefty novel carried on. "He reads a chapter every morning. It really is quite despairing."

"He was out all night," observed the cheap lamp in the corner in a gossip-soaked tone of smugness.

"How do you know?" replied the book.

"He's got a girlfriend," the lamp added.

More silence swept the room, carrying an air of contemplation.

"Preposterous," said the book, dismissively, and went on to mumble something which was inaudible.

"Its true," said the lamp, revealing yet more patronising smugness.

"Who cares?" said the pillow. "Makes a nice change, says I."

"That's only 'cause you hate being crushed!" teased the bedside table.

"Can you blame me?" replied the pillow.

"Well, I have an interest in the well-being of this young man, nay, a responsibility!" the Dostoevsky remarked. And in an anguished tone: "But, oh me! He's given up, already! One hundred and ten pages in. Heedlessly neglected once again."

Almost a minute went by before the clock made a contribution, with all the good intentions of an old friend:

"Come on, book, you haven't been neglected, he'll read you when he gets back. He's got a girlfriend, you know what its like."

"Are we talking about the same person?!" replied the book, defiantly. "I tell you, my ticking friend, he has NOT got a girlfriend. It is not within his capabilities."

"He has," said the all-knowing lamp.

"Pah!" retorted the novel, uncharacteristically lacking its erudite phraseology, as if too vexed to make the effort.

"Yeah, why do you think we've been washed recently?" said the sheets, rhetorically. A murmur of acceptance followed, echoed round the room by agreeable furniture. "And why do you think he's been playing more guitar?"

"This is true." said the guitar, "I am pretty impressive."

"Well he could impress her with his knowledge of Dostoevsky, no?"

"Oh shut up, book!" said the chair, "I've just about had enough of you rambling on."

"Yeah," chipped in the bookcase. "Spare a thought for all the books who aren't getting any attention." A chorus of grunts came from the abandoned books on the bookcase.

"He hasn't even read the back of me!" screamed the hysterical One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.

"Ssssshhhh!" sssshed the lamp, and all was silent again.

A young man came though the door and flung his keys on the bed. His hair was a mess.