I woke in bullish mood, reflected in the weighty, affirmative shit taken to a recording of Stockhausen's Helikopter- Streichquartett. It looked so healthy I almost took a photo. My ego strength intact, I decided to floss my teeth and it was while polishing my incisors that I received a call from my very famous client. The poor dear had to cancel. He paused, as if waiting for me to enquire further but, curtailing his vanity, I decided the accumulative evidence of his introjected ego, a weakening defence against unknown homosexuality, would serve to fuel my own, more obvious aggression.

I charge double for cancellations.

This palpable, unplanned untruth was, not surprisingly, accepted with almost masochistic delight. Of course, he has enormous buffers against my wayward cruelty and yet, as I ended the call, a grime of regret came over me. I felt manipulated, even seduced into betraying my own rigorous standards. The feeling hovered over the day, redeemed or denied by the nagging desire to burst into Helen's room, revealing her sprawled naked on a chair, very precisely in the manner of Balthus.

I walked home, inhaling slowly, listening out for sites of fetish. And yet, walking over the underpass, another, contrary impulse came to play. It was the desire to lie on my sofa and, without a thought in my head, watch the international news and let it flood over me.