Mmmm...

I woke at five withdrawing from O. The Erotic Review was splayed open on the bed. My memory was slow in reassembling and, feeling weak and constipated, I did precisely what I shouldn't. I filled a whole pipe with O and spent the morning in bed, capitulating to ancient visions of shame and loss, plus an eroticism I couldn't rise to.

By lunch I was staggering round the house with my Collected Rilke. I could hear my voice booming the lines. Then stop, check myself. I had no idea if I was reading aloud or not. I took a breath and felt a clear, perspicacious sense of my own condition and decided, forthwith, to spend an hour with a professional. I put a call to Madame X. She would be in her early forties now, an exquisite age for a woman. It came to nothing. Having passed her accountancy exams, finally, she has now retired from the scene.

George? Probably he has a few numbers lying around. Without thinking, I called him and it was nothing less than two men, in midlife, connecting in open lunacy. Without my uttering a word, he took the call and said, What in god's name are you doing? It was if the satellite between us were an incendiary thing and we were at instant risk of implosion along with, perhaps, the shires and meadows of his childhood. It came to nothing.

I spent the afternoon in the bath playing with the taps, safely.