On the TV in my landlady’s lounge, I saw a handsome cop in a car. He radioed his partner back at HQ to let his wife know he’d be late for dinner. ‘That’s rude,’ I mumbled, ‘… text her yourself.’ The shot widened and, from the shape of the car, I saw it was the 1970s. My landlady snorted. “OK then,” said I, placing the rent money on an expectant table. She grabbed the remote and the volume went up as I edged out the door. Narrative depends on the suspension of disbelief. Authors want readers immersed in their story, caring about the characters as if they were real. Plot details that jar or provoke disbelieving wisecracks are simply no good.