This boat life will be the death of me. I have been rather low lately with various niggles and wheezes, spluttering and occasional flushes, all of them stages on the withdrawal and recovery from O that I appeared to have embarked upon. But I am weakened and irritable, taken to phoning Karen on impulse, having nothing to say. I find myself eroticising the most unlikely of clients and then, having closed the session, I breeze down into the kitchen with a passion for the small talk of my colleagues. I have never embraced the community of my fellows as I have recently, including that of Gareth. Of course, Helen is ill and Neil is lovesick, I am withdrawing and Gareth is insane but we are, at last, the very image of a happy family.

As for Canova's Pauline, dear Reader, I touched her breast. In fact, I ran my finger along her cold lips, as if waiting for her to bite.

Thom is twelve and starting a new school. The mackerel have left early this year, so lately it's been dismal fishing. But he has seemed unduly relaxed about that, happy to spend all morning with me, and catch nothing. And it's on mornings such as these that I wonder if there are whole swathes of his interior life of which I know nothing.

I long to be home.

Smuggling O into Rome.

In the days before security became an ontological condition, I used to waltz through customs with the O in my hand or in my top pocket or, as on a certain memorable trip to Florence, crushed down into a bag of pistachio nuts. But we live in stupid times which demand stupid responses and so it was I went through security with the O inside my unlit pipe which, indeed, I left hanging from the corner of my mouth.

And so tomorrow I leave for Rome.

My master is not well represented in Rome but I fully expect Raphael to restore my spirits and, in particular, the tweaked nipple of his La Fornarina. And while I have always found sculpture rather less subtle and even tiresome (do we not deserve a break from our three dimensions?), I am looking forward to seeing Canova's rendering of Bonaparte's sumptuously sexy, yet irredeemably silly sister, Pauline. In fact, I hope to touch her breast.

Thom was hurt I failed to invite him. I told him this was a work trip. Truth is, I need the freedom to be very possibly on my worst behaviour. Besides, it does no harm to allow his mother to know I am not solely at her beck and call. Yet does she ever beck, or call, come to that?

I called Axel on a few matters pertaining to the maintenance of the boat. He sorted it out with his customary indifference to the practical world (he'll buy a new boat) and then gave me the number of a friend in Rome. I shuddered slightly and, as with Thom, told him it was work, not pleasure. What am I doing? Perhaps one has to do things to find out the reason for doing them.

God, I miss home. I ache for a long, soulful shit to Chopin. Possibly a Nocturne, the 4th, yes.

I've had a run of pipes this week and, certainly, it's slowed me down. I'm constipated and plagued with childish ailments, runny nose and random itching. I've taken so much in the way of O I now no longer know if I even need a piss. My bladder has inflated to documentary levels. Of course, if my mind were to slow the way my body has then I'd be kicking up a proper storm. Perhaps it has? Suicide is no longer an option. It hasn't been since the birth of Thom. And even this morning I realised that a mere glance at a decent picture can warm me sufficiently. I spent a little time with my master's portrait of his second wife, Helene Fourment in a Fur Wrap. That was enough to feel part of life, least for today.

I'd like to talk to Karen.

I'd like to tell her why we failed to mend our relationship. (Because of Thom).

I'd like to lose some weight, give up the O, the fire in the belly, generally, all that, sharpen up. I shall take a week in Rome, I think. All I need are my masters. Yes, I shall have a week in Rome, that'll quicken me again. And god alone, I hope to make it. What if I am waylaid and land up talking to someone? Fuck me, I'll book it now.

How much boat can a man take?

All day I was feeling mischievous. Finally, with my brandy warming, I put a little supercilious Shostakovich on, the Jazz Suite and so, limbering up for some entertainment, I rang up the Swiss and gave him eight weeks notice to vacate. He took it gracefully, as if to suggest he had been thinking the very same thing, and at the same time, only I had got to the phone first. Queer. How much ruin and misery our sexuality! How many affairs did the poor wife have to have? And the children, what, teenagers? Oh there'll be self harm, perhaps a brilliant neurotic, anything to seek definition. A Nazi child, perhaps? Oh god, what has he done? I rang Karen. I miss you.

I walked around the boat. Around and around the boat.

I returned to the lounge, switched off my phone. I carried on walking. I carried on and on until I was certain that I knew what I was doing.

A cup of O.

Well, I may as well confess. On sunday afternoon the craving for O had given me such an ache over the back of the neck that I had no choice but to sneak into the personal rooms Of Father Ian, chaplain of Southwark cathedral, and the drum and bass of my temples was so relentless that I could do nothing but throw my crushed up poppy heads into his kettle and, when boiled, take the kettle outside and, throwing myself on the grass, wait for the lovely O to steep. There was no time to investigate the suggestion of pornography under Father Ian's cushions, but certainly it lent a balance in the moral reckoning of our situations, so I lay back on the verge feeling like the god of my own singular needs yet wondering, too, what I would have said to Father Ian if he had found me in his closet. I like to think I could have turned it around and departed his rooms, perhaps having thrashed his buttocks with a few sticks. I returned home in a swoon, and slept like a baby.

Thom cancelled.

On impulse, I took a train to London to see Rothko. I visit his room at the Tate twice yearly and have plans to visit the chapel in Houston next year. He is my only concession to 20th century art. In fact, aside from the phenomenologists, he is my only concession to anything at all abstact. And yet, in accepting Karen's unconvincing apology I was left with time to ponder on the nuances in her voice. I have chronicled how we tried and failed to renew our relationship. Certainly, I have yearned for her and yet, in imagining all kinds of temporary lovers, I have thrown every obstacle in our way. So why have I contrived this jealousy? Is it so hard to accept that I prefer my life as, oh that silly phrase, a single man.

I'm running out of O.

Sliding out of East Croydon, I called K, the line was dead. There is no O in London anymore, no, hasn't been since the 1890's, and so, already itchy, the awareness of arrival into a place without it sent my craving on a spiral. I walked swiftly to the Tate, hoping Rothko would restore some balance, only to find his room had been temporarily dismantled. And so, furious, I stormed to the box office where, Maxim, the Polish, explained the reason for this and that, luckily, there were many other paintings to see. Other paintings? What do you think I am, other paintings? Do you think I will look at anything that is put in front of me? I am here for Rothko!!! For Rothko!!! After that, London was not pretty for me. I spent the afternoon walking along residential roads in Chelsea and Kensington, imagining a letter to the Guardian, and lopping the heads of any wanton poppy plants.