My weekend exertions maintained their occult power this morning as I breezed into work and, following some buffoonery with Gareth in the kitchen, I entered Helen's room and, blithely ignoring her victim self, asked gently but most firmly why she had taken my parking space. The low note in my voice awakened her and, entering adult, she said she took my space on the assumption I was walking to work. But is it not my space, whether I drive or not? She accepted this as the case, maintaining a level, adult smile. I heaved my voice into it's deepest timbre, sensing a certain relief on Helen's part and prompting, too, the further renegotiation of these states that occured later in the afternoon, in my room. Sex was not my intention and I was genuinely furious about the parking space. Of course, it's also my fault. Most recently I drive to work while listening to Dante's Inferno and I refuse to park my car and switch off the Florentine until I have reached the end of a canto. While I may insist on the perogative of poetry, it did make me late for a client last week, as I drove round and round the block until the end of Canto Xll. Aside from my exertions, it is also this heightened priority that is deepening my strength. I write this on the train, returning from Arsenal, Thom asleep on my shoulder. I may not have earnt this peace but I have owned it and that, I suspect, is much the same thing.