Love the book, absolutely, just love it. Axel was lying. Turn of phrase, everything, love it. I hadn't expected Axel to call so soon. Leaving me to stew for a while was the form. Nevertheless, he was still lying. A few months ago- I had barely started the second chapter- Axel called saying that Germaine Greer was prepared to call my book the greatest work of feminist literature since Simone De Beauvoir. I wasn't aware Axel owned any publishing houses. Possibly he owns Hamish Hamilton. More likely, he owns the man who owns Hamish Hamilton. Hence, Germaine Greer. I was appalled. But this is beyond gender! This book changes the language! He hadn't a clue what he was saying. At this point, he hadn't read the book, and I hadn't written it. It's none of that post-feminist, don't really give a shit stuff, this is messianic feminism!  Goddammit, this is gangs of women raping men in forests ! This is Amazonian! It was this kind of talk that inclined me, over the winter, into writing a more academic work than was expected. Yet he was still saying how he loved it, absolutely.  Most likely, he was priming me for another confrontation at a later date, possibly face to face. I changed the subject. Axel, those photos, the boat party photos? Where have they come from? It had been an article of faith, right from the inception of the boat parties, that no cameras or photographic equipment of any kind were allowed on board. It was almost the founding principle of the whole enterprise. It had even survived the explosion of visual culture over the last twenty years. We just did not film ourselves. Apart from appealing to an earlier generation of sensual humanists, it was also, plainly, to avoid blackmail. How could Axel guarantee the safety of the politicians, the European delegates, the African diplomats, not to say the occasional cricketer, if there was even a single camera on board? Dear boy, those photos are the only ones that exist of the boat parties. That's is why I had them. Having heard of their existence, I have paid , often considerable sums, to ensure they didn't circulate further. And now you have them. Safe keeping, he said. We spoke a little more. He asked about Thom. I made up some nonsense about cannabis, and my fears. He spoke, truthfully, about Gertrude. Her mobility issues, her painful hip. It was a quick goodbye. On ending the call I realized that I was so convinced of Axel's complete corruption that, over the years, it has blinded me to individual instances of it. Equally, I wasn't sure how much I wanted to think about it, either.