So, he sends a card.

I woke this morning to a postcard from George. It is from a film the artist K R Buxley has made showing herself having an orgasm. Of course the very meaningful, if slightly laboured point, lies surely in that all one sees is the face of the artist. Yet beyond Buxley, what is George trying to say? That he is back to his old powers? What is this if not another provocation?

I spent the day with my father. He says he is in remission.

I agreed, heartily. All the while his leg gets bigger and bigger.

Yesterday I saw Colin, the most contemporary of men. After the session, as an antidote, I spent awhile cleaning and polishing my Russian pipe, circa 1880. I am still no wiser as to what Colin wants or who he knows but I am aware of Gareth. He passed me in the hall, smiling, as if his mind were elsewhere.