Ah, Helen.

What is she doing across the way? Hitching her skirts? Or sharpening her pencils? It is a measure of my desire that both images please me. Yet I awoke this morning with an irritability that even a heavy shit and a lesser known Arvo Part concerto failed to alleviate. It is sometimes the case that ill defined irritations can swerve into sheer insanity and such was the case this morning as I took my breakfast with the latest copy of Neuropsychologia and read an article on the surprising similarities of the male and female orgasm. What is wrong with these people? Have they never had vaginal orgasms? I can testify that with the proper toys and utensils, plus a city and guilds in gynaecology, a woman's vaginal orgasm can shake trees from the earth. But time. Who has the time? And so it was in this wayward state that I entered work and immediately tripped over Helen in the kitchen, clutching her waist for support. The sudden contact loosened her and, for a moment, I saw the longing in her mouth. However, she turned away and delivered her lines. Telling me she did not want that to happen again, I took a serious breath and nodded with purpose. However, having spoken with her back to me and in the most brittle of voices, I left the kitchen with the certain knowledge that Helen meant exactly the opposite. So, feeling lighter and the irritability nearly gone, I really fancied bumping into Gareth and talking some drivel about the hypnotist. However, unable to find him, I went to my room and drafted a letter to the enfeebled editors of Neuropsychologia.