Well, he doesn't make it easy, does he, St. John? If my soul is made of anything it's wet and mud and steaming horseshit, and so it was I put down St. John of the Cross's Ascent and lifted the phone to call my own dear Helen whereupon I learnt, at last, that she has, in fact, found a lump. I may have thwarted Gareth but god, this was no consolation. A lump? And so, forever calculating, my second consideration was to wonder why I hadn't found the lump on friday. Had we not groped? My sense of occassion was failing me but, within the whirr of my defences, I was aware that I would have to deal with this in a physical way. I imagined diving off the pier and swimming to France. Helen mentioned a six week waiting for a mammogram and I found myself on firmer ground, lambasting the health service and offering to pay for private care. She made it clear she could fund her own needs, a statement I felt was sexual, as well as financial. And besides, the waiting was based on medical grounds. I could feel myself turning, sensing the involvment of unknown others, as well as Gareth. And it could, after all, just be a lump. Before signing off I had already decided to take a pipe of O to the bath, the better to explore the crushing failure of my instincts as well as, what I can only describe as, my position.