heelers purgatorio

"Hey I heard you wrote about me on your thing."
The words were those of my Cousin Hector, bright and breezy, newly returned from the Eastern Front where a winter blitzkrieg has left the Gospel Choir reeling and Hector all but in control of the Steppes, that is to say the steps up to the choir loft at Kilcullen Church.
The only opponent still holding out in the West is 90 year old Mrs Von Horst but as with the British Empire in 1942, only a fool would bet on her.
"Well I suppose with a bit of imagination something I wrote might be interpreted as being about you. But I change the names. And take dramatic licence. No one could know who I mean. Or don't mean. Or even what the hell I'm talking about."
"You're a terrible man."
"To be honest Hector, I was a bit worried you mightn't like the last one. I wasn't sure you'd still be talking to me. Or that the lads from the Gospel Choir would still be talking to me either for that matter."
"The difference between me and them is I have a sense of humour."
"I'd say the difference between you and the Gospel Choir, is you haven't actually read what I wrote."
"Will you send me a copy?"
"Hector, you know where to find my writings."
"Yeah but there's a lot to get through."
"Would it really cause you too much suffering to read some of the stuff I write which isn't about you?"
"Ah you know. It's hard going."
"We writers often nurture a gentle illusion, that people might get some pleasure out of reading us."
"Ha! Send me a copy will you?"
"You mean you couldn't be bothered reading anything else I've written but  you'd quite like to check out the bit that might be about you?"
"There you go. Send it on."