I was eased from my dreams by a mournful Gorecki. Without the accompaniment, I'd very likely have banished the dream to oblivion for it was, indeed, the most fantastically torrid, orgiastic debauch reminiscent of nothing else but Ruben's own Last Judgement. I do have a fondness, almost a nostalgia for eschatology and so, buttering my toast, had to remind myself that everyone who has ever existed has lived at the very end of time. And so, happily rebuked, I took my rods onto deck to catch myself a decent breakfast, and, notwithstanding, the better to spy Caroline at her toilet. Oh, they are lovely people, Jeff, Jeff and Caroline. Like myself, they have just entered middle age. Having sold up their recruitment, or double glazing business and, childless, they are now perma tanned retirees in the world of easy cruising. They are incredibly fit, always upbeat, clasping hands and shoulders, the only blemish being Caroline's one, shameful cigarette, alone at night. They are, of course, a mere step away from the world of swingers.

There was noone around. Very likely they'd gone to town, running an errand in pursuit of their next adventure. I lit a half pipe Of O and took to wondering about my dream. And yet, it was less the whirling mass of breast and thigh that concerned me, or the terrible will of the flesh, but more a sense of overriding, possibly anonymous beneficence surrounding it all. I was then reminded of my master, Rubens, and always within or above the most punishing of scenes are the angels, forever heralding, or succumbing. And so is it any wonder, after all, that I have to come believe in angels? Finishing my pipe and, as ever, in the steps of my master, I returned to the kitchen, coffee, and my journal.