Neil Gaiman is now officially my hero for life.

There is a certain magic in real life that people who merely write about magic cannot often touch. Here Mr. Gaiman does exactly that, and with unassuming, old-fashioned noblesse oblige.

When I am rich and famous, of course, I will act nothing like this. Instead, I will wear an absurd looking black hat, knock over passersby with my stomach, walk into restaurants without a reservation while saying “Don’t you know who I am?”, and having my brutelike manservant Torg  set the drug-maddened Dobermans on people who irk me, or collapse caverns on them with badly-placed explosives in order to forward my power-mad schemes.

Oh, wait. I already wear a absurd looking black hat.