Hoping for greater things, I took an undifferentiated shit to the sweeping, elegiac scape of Bax's 1st symphony and so, with Gareth on the prowl and feeling heavy and ponderous, I left for work with no inclination for anything other than stimulants. I considered calling my dealer, K., but seeing Helen drive past and certain she'd seen me, I carried on to work and promptly made a strong, albeit instant coffee. Later, as I meandered down to the Classical Longplayer, I had a moment of synchronicity that would have made even Jung proud. I spotted K. on the street, wearing his favourite anorak, and about to enter an antiquarian bookshop. He looked unusually present and was bearing a carrier bag of hardback books. Was he buying or selling? My uncertainty over this irrelevance led to a renewed surge in the desire for stimulants. I went to heckle him but stalled, taking a savage mouthful of apple instead. Not wanting to approach K. on the street, I decided the only way to appease my need for drugs was to secretly ascertain the titles of the hardbacks he was reading and so, disposing of the core, I slipped quietly into the bookshop. K. would have been oblivious to a bomb, so it was easy to peer over his shoulder, noting his distinguished, if elderly hands. Heaving with delight, I left the bookshop feeling refreshed, invigorated to know of his passion for 19th century Egyptology. I returned to work a balanced, temperate man. A therapist, no less.