Oh jest is infinite, is it not?

Well mine isn't. You think I jest?

No, no.

Angels, I believe.

And so it was, with my central nervous system somewhat impaired, my senses, in recompense, gloriously alive, my tread firm and definitive with the scent of O hanging on my collar, and feeling as libidinally febrile as ever, I walked into town and back to work, wondering how to explain my overlong leave. I decided that the maiden aunt, incontinent and immobile yet culturally aware, resided less in Australia and rather more in Rome. I decided the Italian city, with all that art, would throw Gareth off the scent. He'd let me have Rome. Very likely he'd bag the East, all that injustice and literal thinking, nothing to threaten. And so you can imagine my surprise on turning the corner to meet Gareth's huge grin (and obvious delight) and the instantaneous question, so how was it, Wittenberg? I smiled wide and true and, holding the buckle of my belt, found a deep, but entirely false laugh. Well of course, I learnt sorcery in Wittenberg, I said. I then explained most seriously of the minor relatives of my father that I looked up in Germany, en route, of course, to the maiden aunt in Rome.

Of course, I had sent them all a postcard! But why had I done that and, equally, why had I forgotten? And so it was that I entered work with a wall of defences, lies and all the unending manipulation and smelt, again, the warm oil of my life, and, ticking over, the engine of my grand plan. I threw open the window and, leaning out, lit a cigarette as if searching for it all on the street below.