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.