It took a while for Canto XVII to finish so I drove round and round the block and, as ever the counter of my mood, arrived at work to find my happiness meet Gareth, snarling in the kitchen. He tried to hide his mood by ridiculing the morning news. In response I poured my coffee, breathing deeply, trying to stay in the belly. Inevitably, my retreat incited him. He them ridiculed a very promiscuous Gestalist of our acquaintance, roped in the Motivational Interviewers, then finished with a low punch at Neil and his toilet. It was a fabulous display of complete horseshit and so, elated at Gareth's angst, I withdrew to my room to await the day, and to allow Gareth to expend his ire on other, perhaps more reactive people. And yet only later, taking an early evening shit to a little singsong by Bach, did it occur to me that Gareth's anger might relate to myself. Or rather, myself and Colin. It was a deeply gratifying idea. Indeed, tomorrow will tell, as it will the state of Helen's health. Very likely, I'll sleep like a peach.


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