Please allow me a moment to digress. Perhaps more than a moment. Hardly any of this has anything to do with whomever is reading this, so feel free to skip over it. However, just know that it is important to me. So, if you do decide to continue reading this, please try to understand what I'm saying as if I'm actually sitting across from you struggling to find the words to say this as it would deserve to be said.

It has been my experience so far that if a piece of literature or film is particularly wonderful or fascinating, there is a certain reason for it. The first reason is usually for books and it comes in the form of the dedication. If a book is excellent, check to see who the story has been dedicated to. You may understand a great deal more after. The second reason usually goes to the stories we hear orally or from films. There is a lesson or a message that screams to be heard because it has been otherwise ignored, and the point of the literature is to get the message out there because it's something that people need to hear. The third reason can apply to anything. The reason being that there is a confession in there somewhere. Somehow it's a secret that's been kept, but it's now a secret too big to keep or it's a secret too close to the soul to be told to those closest to you; so the easiest way to tell it is through inputting words into a computer and hoping someone out there will understand.

The point of all of that is to explain something to you, dear reader. Yes, you. Whatever you are doing, wherever you are, male or female. This is a confession. By no means am I calling this little bored-in-Physics project an epic piece of film or literature, but this has all three reasons for it to be, and so I hope it is. This has a dedication, a message, and a confession. But the confession is most important. Therefore, I will explain it all at the end.

Thank you for reading. Seriously. You don't know how much it means.

Prologue: (Rather, one of Good Omens' end parts.)

It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around eleven-thirty.

St. James' park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. There really had been a decrease in world tension, in fact, but a lot of people were in offices trying to find out why, trying to find out where Atlantis had disappeared to with three international fact-finding delegations on it, and trying to work out what happened to all their computers yesterday.

The park was deserted except for one member of M19 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out also to be a member of M19, and a tall man feeding the ducks.

And there were also Crowley and Aziraphale.

They strolled side by side across the grass.

"Same here," said Aziraphale, "The shop's all there. Not so much as a soot mark."

"I mean, you can't just make an old Bentley," said Crowley. "You can't get the patina. But there it was, large as life. Right there in the street. You can't tell the difference."

"Well I can tell the difference," said Aziraphale. "I'm sure I didn't stock books with titles like Biggles Goes to Mars and Jack Cade, Frontier Hero and 101 Things a Boy Can Do and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea.

"Gosh, I'm sorry," said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his book collection.

"Don't be," said Aziraphale happily. "They're all mint first editions and I looked them up in Skindle's Price Guide. I think the phrase you use is whoo-eee."

"I thought he was putting the world back just as it was," said Crowley.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "More or less. As best he can. But he's got a sense of humour, too."

Crowley gave him a sideways look.

"Your people been in touch?"

"No. Yours?"

"No."

"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."

"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."

"And I think mine are waiting to see what happens next," said Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded. "A breathing space," he said. "A chance to morally re-arm. Get the defences up. Ready for the big one."

They stood by the pond, watching the ducks scrabble for the bread.

"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "I thought that was the big one."

"I'm not sure," said Crowley. "For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them."

"What? You mean Heaven and Hell against Humanity?"

Crowley shrugged. "Of course, if he did change everything, then maybe he changed himself, too. Got rid of his powers, perhaps. Decided to stay human."

"Oh, I do hope so," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I'm sure the alternative wouldn't be allowed. Er. Would it?"

"I don't know. You can never be certain about what's really intended. Plans within plans."

"Sorry?" said Aziraphale.

"Well," said Crowley, who'd been thinking about this until his head ached, "haven't you ever wondered about it all? You know- your people and my people, Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean, why?"

"As I recall," said the angel, stiffly, "there was the rebellion and-"

"Ah, yes. And why did it happen, eh? I mean, it didn't have to, did it?" said Crowley, a maniac look in his eye. "Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn't going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course."

"Oh, come on. Be sensible," said Aziraphale, doubtfully.

"That's not good advice," said Crowley. "That's not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it sensibly, you come up with some very funny ideas. Like: why make people inquisitive, and then put some forbidden fruit where they can see it with a big neon finger flashing on and off saying 'THIS IS IT'?"

"I don't remember any neon."

"Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do you do that if you really don't want them to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built works properly, eh? You start thinking: it can't be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all- all-"

INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.

"Yeah. Right. Thanks."

They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head.

"What was I saying?" he said.

"Don't know," said Aziraphale. "Nothing very important, I think."

Crowley nodded gloomily. "Let me tempt you to some lunch," he hissed.

They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

No one heard it over the noise of the traffic, but it was there, right enough.