What am I, reduced to this? The question of what to cook for George tonight has oppressed me all day. He rang last night, clearly distressed. I took the call in the bath, taking a lathered wank to a memory of a feisty encounter with a shopgirl. To offset the disappointment of the intrusion I then recalled the shopgirl's thighs, picturing them as not unlike the heavier specimen in any Rubens, and with the detumescence I began to get the gist of what George was saying. I followed him as he spoke of ailments and alienations and began to trace a triangular pattern to his woes. He creates a situation, fears vengeance, it doesn't happen. It goes on and on, all of which is underscored, very likely, by nothing less than a midlife crisis. I was naked in the bath so, having no desire for the details, was barely listening but George's saving plan for the rest of the week, the rest of his life, had me thrashing around for a towel. George was about to bid £8,000 for an Etty nude. I was appalled. In a desperate attempt to bring him to his senses, I held a flannel over my dick. With a certain decorum restored, I understood that, in his present mood, voicing my disapproval would surely entice him further. I merely told him to watch his back, there are a good many Etty fakes around. I signed off by inviting him round for supper tonight and today, wholly bored whether he bids or not, the question of what to cook has still ruined my fucking day. And it occurs to me now, in the half light of a quarter pipe, how much of life can be spent in trying not to offend those we most deeply wish to offend.