I sensed early on the day's end was a pipe of O.

Helen passed me in the hall, smiling at her coffee. Does she imagine I'm hurt? I shall invite her round, show her my collection, have her understand the depth of my tolerance.

Neil has lost his confidence, and now his clients. I cannot begin to care.

Gareth's fevered imagination finally succumbed, to flu. I planned to send him a Dali card and yet, as my very famous client fell into the frozen waters of another anecdote, I decided to send the postcard to my son, instead. A small decision, perhaps, and yet enough of those, in time, could redeem a life.

And so for no obvious reason I went home, stuffed the pipe, took a bath, and reclined to a late Beethoven quartet, trying to ward off with O the shred of flesh in that final movement.