I was on the phone, consoling Thom over Arsenal's woeful display when, while aware my son will bear his losses heavily in later life, I also sensed that he was keeping me on the phone for some other reason. I made a mental note to check his mother's driveway in the early hours. I then whoofed up the Gorecki and took a slow, almost mournful shit and it was then, with the toilet door ajar, that I could just hear a message recording itself onto my machine. It was an old Rogerian friend informing me, as requested, that he does, indeed, know a little something of Colin, that most contemporary of men. He told me that Colin, in fact, plays a weekly game of badminton. I was shocked, pleasurably. Had not Gareth mentioned playing the game himself? I took a warmth, almost a gratitude, in imagining their conspiracy. After all, it is a relief to know one is not surrounded by dullards and, really, what can they possibly do to me? And so it was I took a dose of O and opened my Mapplethorpe, all the better to explore our unlovely and, perhaps, finite outcomes.