I was expecting an Indonesian, perhaps a Japanese dish, at any rate something from George's Asian phase, so when I arrived for Sunday lunch and found myself cordially admiring his, admittedly exquisite, bangers and mash, I knew that he was suffering as much as me. A passion for international cuisine was clearly no redemption for the futility of academe, or midlife, or, in particular, his life. And yet seeing my own future in his despair I had no desire for the details, but revelled in them nonetheless. So, since resigning as head of history and throwing himself into cookery, George has lurched from a mania for celebrity, to weeping on his kitchen floor, clutching a bag of chips. He spends hours on the phone seeking entry into 'Masterchef', or somesuch broadcast with no budget, reality, whatever. And then lunges to the other side of the crater of midlife despair, weeping for the end of all hope. It struck me then, as I chiseled apart my Cretan sausage, that in having cooked for me, his friend, and being sat here with me, his friend, perhaps George had found an equilibrium. As I sensed no appreciation of this, I felt momentarily bereft. In fact, I even shuddered at the crassness of my own unspoken observation. However, as I opened our fifteen year brandy I began to consider George's symptoms as more psychiatric than psychological and thus heartened I pulled out the print of my beloved Maja and as we meditated on her for a few moments we were then able to part on genial, balanced terms. After, I put the second movement of Gorecki's 3rd on repeat and drove slowly round and round town, waiting for the deep breath that would return me to my own concerns.