I woke alone. Tea and toast, alone. In truth, a vague air of unhappiness has plagued me awhile. I have neglected to study the symptoms, aware only of an increasing interest in Couple Having Sex, a Zichy print upon my kitchen wall. Last week, I was late for a client, so engrossed in this picture I have owned over twenty years. This evening, I ignored a call from my father. How quickly life can fall apart. Anyway, the Zichy shows a man lying on his back and the woman lying on top of him, but a facing upwards, covering him. Her arms and legs are splayed open and the man's penis is shown entering her from underneath. But why, why this bliss and abandon bothers me? Clearly, I am jealous of the feminine experience. The sexual pleasure of the woman is wholly, entirely, ontologically other. While the man experiences an intensification, the woman dissolves. Her pleasure is one of receiving, not striving, thereby yielding the grace of sentience. And what of that? If the religious sensibility is anything it is feminine. Clearly, mid life has lent me no favours. I am still as heavy, as male, as material, as dog as ever I was. If only I could paint. And so it was I spent the evening ignoring Helen's calls, honouring my own hormones, then took a late night walk into town, stopping to stare into the window of a kebab shop.