I like women who can talk about houses. As a man, my opening gambits have always been property, its value, its maintenance. The plumbing, the wiring. For myself, I don't give a shit about any of it and I don't care if a woman gives a damn, either, but one can always measure a woman's self -respect to the very extent that she can make a decent conversation about the subject. Because, always, when we talk of houses we are talking of our bodies. All this was on my mind last night because George invited me to an art gallery, a private view in the centre of town.

No-one does nudes anymore, only beginners, and the very old. So, for lack of a decent nude I always look out  for pictures of houses. But there was none of that, either. The artist was a working class hero from up north. He'd already glared at me twice. Carefully, I removed me tweed jacket.  The art was mainly a cubist distortion of heavy industry. Likely, I had walked straight into the artists' father issues. Certainly, I was a generaton older than nearly everyone. George was mingling, on heat. I cannot bear envy. But were not my father and I the poorest in the street? I felt the artist wouldn't care for that information so I decided to orientate my evening around avoiding him. I would rotate in a precise contra-indication to his movements. And with that plan, my evening began.

Firstly, the artist moved to the left and so, moving to the right, I had a brief but pleasant conversation with an Australian man. The artist lurched forwards and so, stepping back, I nearly knocked over the pistacchio nuts. But his next movement, circling back on himself, resulted in me talking again with the Australian, who took it all in his stride. Next, the artist moved quickly to the right and so, making adjustments, I turned and introduced myself to a young brunette. She was in her early twenties. By and large I don't like young people, but I was enjoying this game, and the lunar pallor of the girl's complexion reminded me of a lost, teenage love. And besides the girl, Alanis, made a good fist of describing the price of city rents relative to suburban and rural rentage. The artist was looking at me but hadn't moved, so I carried on with Alanis. She could talk about house prices, but made it clear it wasn't her main interest. I allowed her to own this moment, making her self conscious. But she had a confidence in her sensitivity so her curiosity was keen, and alive. I wasn't overly surprised when she suddenly asked  my occupation.

I'm dreaming of tunnels, she said, at last.

I could have spoken until the early hours about this but, nearly thirty years older, the perjorative was hers, not mine, so I asked her to elaborate. She described the tunnels in some detail, the symmetry of them, the relentlessness, the beauty of the vanishing point. I was about to mention the meaning of the tunnel in dream imagery but George was at my elbow, muttering something. I couldn't hear him but I was aware of the artist. He hadn't moved so neither did I.  But he was glaring again. George clasped my arm, look, that's his sister. Oh come on,  George! This is a cosmopolitan city in southern England, not Sicily, but actually, he had a point. The artist was clearly not happy with me. Of course, he didn't know it, but if he were to step backwards and turn around then, by the rules of my little game, I wouldn't be in a position to talk to his sister.

In dreams, a tunnel is one of the most significant symbols, and from the way you describe it I think you are very attached to the processes, perhaps more than even the meaning of-

The artist had narrowed his eyes, glaring at me, but was still in the same position. Look, said George, let's go. I refused to move. I was having a deeply meaningful conversation and the brother could stare at me all day and night. I would not move unless he did. But something in George, in his voice, in the defeated tones, made me understand that my allegiance should be with him, as men of a certain age. I gave Alanis my card and George and I left.

Straight home, into the kitchen. Would I ever forgive George this? Was it jealousy? The whole fucking thing is a load of fucking bollocks, I said loudly, without really knowing what I meant, or what it referred to. On the table was the package from Hamburg, I tore it open and, indeed, it was the eleven volumes of Walter's Secret Life, and it was the Chorier, too. I carried on ripping up the package, throwing strips around the kitchen. AXEL? I'M ON IT!