They were on their knees.

After a week of trying and failing to read the prose of the mindless psychosynthesists, I was aching for a decent shit and had taken to smearing manuka honey on my toast each morning and hoping that, if accompanied by a slow Chopin Nocturne, it would ease the flow. And so as I sat on the can with, thank Christ, my own smell rising, I took to wondering how I'd break those bastards in the Tuesday group.

Well I did and they were on their knees. I reminded them of the group agreement and the rule whereby any interaction by members outside the group had to be talked of within the group and, furthermore, we will sit here in silence until that rule is respected. And watching them twitch and sweat for ten minutes was nothing less than lovely.

However, as I glanced up and down my shelves wondering which 19th Century Russian to read next, I sensed B.'s agitation and felt the silence would be broken not by the confession of congress between L. and (married P.), but by something deep within the mulch of B.'s soul. Her leg had become spasmodic and was now rhythmic. It was now gearing up to act out, or flash back, and I desperately wanted none of either.

I was abused!

I was abused and you don't believe me!

Oh, we do, we do.

She was buckled over, head in hands, squealing away. And in the release that B. had provided for the group, in the pity and the tissues, P admitted his infidelity with L. and everyone else felt that wasn't really the point at the moment, and P. was inclined to agree. And so it passed, the wounded matriarch lay upon the floor, the patriarch restored.

Later, I lit a quarter pipe and went to bed.

I tried to re-read Robert Bly's Iron John.

Now this is a book, I said to myself, that is full of immense good. I drifted.

I drifted off, realising that is precisely what makes it so unreadable.