Was ever an arse proferred like Boucher's Odalisque? While not overly appetising, she was on my mind this morning. I had woken from a dream where, in short, I was suffocated by the rolling fat of a woman's arse. And so, as I buttered my toast, I understood the woman was archetypal and clearly a rendering of my current situation and yet surprised, too, that such a vicious assault should arise in these quiet, almost tranquil days. One should never underestimate the shadow, I suppose. I cleaned my teeth twice and, on the walk to work, imagined the arse to be Boucher's rumpy Odalisque and, pleasing me, this quickly evolved into a plan of activity for Helen and me tomorrow afternoon. And so it was, alive with vengeance, I breezed into the house, wiping out Gareth with my grin.