He opened the apartment door before I could knock. I guess he must have seen or heard me coming up the stairs and down the corridor, or across the street. A vague shrug of his mighty shoulders was an adequately friendly substitute for any formal verbal greeting. It was 9.40 on a Monday morning, yet He wore an old-fashioned woollen dressing gown. An affectation, especially in this cool dry weather, it had the kind of mock tartan pattern your crusty grandfather might choose, and it was a reminder that nobody had a clue how old my ageless interview subject truly was...

A casual gesture suggested apology for the junk mail cluttering up this state welfare flat, with its condensation-stained walls and flaking paintwork. Having abandoned his life's charitable work, it seems unlikely he would be concerned with keeping up appearances. He rarely ventured outside, nowadays (or so the neighbours had told me), but this place (an urban retreat of solitude?) was still neater than my bachelor's room, though the furniture was even more spartan. There were no lightbulbs (useless for someone who could see in the dark), and I had heard from the building's caretaker that all of the electrical circuits had been disconnected when He took up residence here. Unfazed by extremes of temperature, the power supply would have been a pointless luxury for a person living on the poverty line. The modestly sized kitchen seemed bigger, due to a complete lack of the usual home appliances. I glanced at the big ceramic sink containing a couple of days washing up, left to soak in a plastic bowl. The room also contained an insulated pantry for chilled foods, 3 large Formica-topped base cupboards, and a rather battered refectory style table of dark oak. He moved around the room slowly but silently, and I was unsure whether his bare feet were actually touching the floor.

I watched while he made toast... his peculiar eyes scorching thick slices of brown bread. I have eaten microwave pizza and 24-hour thermos coffee but, unaccountably, I was not keen on sampling his personalised breakfast when, communicating only with another of his perfunctory gestures, He indicated a willingness to share it. Later on, I realised that my reluctance to break bread with the last century's greatest hero was probably because I'd not actually seen him wash those powerful hands. (Well, why would an invulnerable being worry about cleanliness?) While he munched the most important meal of the day, I took out my notepad, pen and pencil, and the standard audio tape deck that was specified clearly in our agreement for this exclusive interview - the very 1st since His sudden and unexplained

retirement from heroic service after that fateful day in September. Checking the batteries, I carefully placed the small machine on the table, between us, and opened my book. Each page was headed with a question that the world, and my editors, wanted answering. After all these long months of public and media speculation, and behind-the-scenes prep - waiting for this opportunity, the interview began with an anticlimax, when He finished eating and gave his consent, with a nod, for me to start recording. It's been over a year since our great metropolis was attacked. Would you now like to explain why you stopped fighting villains, and saving the lives of innocents?