I spent the morning in the garden. Taking a Turkish coffee to my bench, I made another attempt to read contemporary fiction, a wasteful hour that I managed to redeem by taking deep breaths, and, between paragraphs, slowing my heartbeat to standstill. Making a mental note to give the novel to Neil, I plunged my hands into the soil, preferring to relocate my ailing conifer. I had switched the phones off and, having decided to spend the day alone, felt able to relinquish myself to the sounds and smell of the house. Later, I returned to my bench and considered again the question of my father and my preference for exploring this issue within myself, my body, rather than the usual method of conversation. Of course, upon my stretch of the coast most of the dominatrices are amateurs, mainly blondes working in retail, possibly more intelligent than their affable, decent husbands, but essentially domestic creatures. Most likely I will have to travel. And so it was, with the gulls resting on chimneys and the desperate laughter of children next door, that I slowed my breath again and tried to examine my body for the source and site of it's requirement.