Falling asleep with Walter's fantasies, and my own, all of them oiling the furthest reaches of my cranium, I was bound to wake up sweating, and so I did. Yet, while my mind was a cinemascape of porn this felt less like a dream, more a memory. But I couldn't be sure it was personal. Was I even in the dream? Jung would say I had tapped into an archetype and, certainly, the dream had the heavy, pounding quality that reminded me of dreams whenever I was ill. I rubbed my eyes, it was only 10 pm. I got dressed, went downstairs. I needed to leave the house because if I had tapped into a collective unconscious of porn, then I wanted to drive away, far away. Ideally, I wanted to give my mind away to the first stranger I met, like a free parking ticket. After all, why should I carry the burden? And maybe somebody could make better use of it. I started the car, flicked the headlights, and drove slowly, like a skunk. It was then, lit only by the streetlights on the seafront, that I saw Karen. She was jogging.

She had never been running before, or shown any interest in any sport, so to see her now, running hard in black hot pants felt like a betrayal. I followed her slowly. She had a gadget glowing on her arm. Was that her phone? On her other arm was another, smaller device.  She looked like a hospital patient on the run. What was she monitoring? Calories? Distance? Her distance over time, vis a vis the calories, tabulated to her body mass? What would all this information tell her that I could not? I wanted to run after her, clasp her arms, shake some sense into her. Her body had been many things to me, we carved our histories, our stories onto each other, it had never been a machine. Only my master had painted more beautiful bodies than hers. I was losing her all over again. I drove slowly, at a distance. The streetlight showed the definition of her calf muscles. And yet, I could see the attraction. A hard, anonymous beauty. She turned off on to the promenade and I lost sight of her.

Alanis...!

Who...?

From the exhibition?

She wants to book a session. I suggested we go for coffee first, get an idea of her needs. It must have sounded an unprofessional proposition but, in fact, it was either coffee on a wobbly, metallic table or my black leather couch with wall to wall of, currently, Japanese erotica. The young have no idea that to do a decent job of work you have to get your hands dirty. So, I was protecting her, no?

I'd rather meet at your office, if that's ok?

Well, that's possible, but it's normal practice for me to have an initial chat, usually in a cafe.

Yet, she agreed. But there was a method to my madness. We had met in a social context, one where flirting is the currency, and we exuded the appropriate hormones until George intervened. If we are to do any therapuetic work we will have to acknowledge my attraction in the very first session. It'd take us a year to work through that revelation, segueing nicely on to three years of father issues. She's pretty, but not for me. I'll have coffee and warn her off. Give her Gareth's number, or Helen's. Nice to have her round the place. Mmm, Helen's number. Gareth has no time for people's dreams. For him, her tunnel would be Freudian, and that would upset everybody.

An early night. I'll take Walter's Secret Life to bed, volume one, god help me.

Overcast...Gareth stared at the sky, as if today's weather had been on his mind a few weeks now and so, finally, he was the right man to make a proper appraisal of it. For me, talking about the weather is bad manners but with Gareth it means only one thing: he wants you to know that there is something you don't know. I went straight to Helen's room and let myself in. You didn't even say sorry. What? Of course I was. It was obvious I was sorry. How is anything obvious unless you say it? I felt sorry, you knew I was sorry. I felt...ashamed. Well shame is about you, sorry is about me. Shame? I said ashamed. There's a difference. Helen put her hand on her hip. My time was running out but I couldn't let her pin all this on me. Shame? I hadn't felt that since the millenium. Gareth staring at the overcast sky. Whatever I said, something told me I shouldn't apologise because, very likely, it was already too late. Only outrage would save me. Absolute rage against a situation, a society, a civilization that could make two intelligent people so petty. I longed to be rolling on the banks of the Thames with Nell Gwynn. I imagined the rage coming, then let it go, as if I had yet to find the situation, or the person, who warranted it. Sighing gently, I left the room. Where had the rage gone? If I can't summon that, what can I do?

Ah, sad news. Our Florentine shoemaker, Stefano Bemer, has died. I called Thom, he was devestated. He'd only just received his pair of Derby loafers that we ordered. They came in march, six months later than expected, and we did wonder if something was wrong because Stefano's shoes never took more than a year to arrive. Well, we' ll have to visit the workshop, check out the apprentices. Or, possibly, the usurping relatives. Let's hope they cut the cloth. But if they don't, make no mistake, Thom and I will have to spread our wings. But I'll never forget that day on the Rue des Trois Freres, all those years ago, wearing your blue Oxford brogues, and the idea I had of myself then. So long Stefano.

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!

This morning a heavy parcel arrived, post mark Hamburg. Placing it on the table, I continued with my toast. If this was Walter's Secret Life, then Axel had sent it prematurely. First, he wasn't dead, and secondly, I hadn't earnt it. The package was substantial, well packed, and while I didn't recognise the handwriting as Axel's, those capital letters could easily be Gertrude's. And so I left for work aware that opening this package could set in motion a stage of my life to which I hadn't wholly consented. Like Thom's diary, there were things I didn't need to know about, not now. Was this a form of wisdom? Is it not wiser, sometimes, to manage a situation rather than understand every detail? Did I really want to spend the next few years with Walter's gushing, ejaculating servant girls, even if it was in the service of feminism? It's absolutely last battle? Would anyone thank me? I mean, really?

I waved at Helen and breezed into my room, ready to face my first client. Was I late? Client L, my mistress of the literal truth was already there, sat in her work clothes, sharp in a blue jacket. I turned away, the yellow of her blouse was even sharper, making her hard on the eye. I opened the window, hoping she'd remove the jacket.

With her work persona in the room she spoke of her current project, the funding for the completion of which was being delayed by unknown but undoubtedly dark forces. And then finally, Roger, her love, now in Australia. But she was overarticulating everything, as if I were merely another subordinate who needed firm, but careful handling. I gazed at my shoes awhile.

Anyway, it's only MHC.

Sorry, what is?

MHC genes...Major Histo-compatibility Complex.

I was happy to look at my shoes. Thom had done a good job on them, as it goes.  I wasn't going to buy into her suspense.

That's all that love is. MHC genes. We just fall in love with people who have different MHC to our own so that we can give our offspring an immune boost. And as I don't want children anyway, what does it matter?

At forty- six the chances of her having children were not as optional as presented though, fair enough, I was not up with the latest research. I longed for a deep well to open at my feet. Client L.'s intelligence is born of defensiveness and today, in her work clothes, she had all the armour she'd ever need. So instead of allowing her to dig us both into a depression, I decided to tell her, and perhaps myself, a story. She checked her watch, as if I were already boring her.

There was a reflective and respected Albanian man, Nuri Bey, who married a wife much younger than himself.

One evening, he returned home earlier than usual and a faithful servant came to him and said, Your wife, our mistress, is acting suspiciously. She has in her room a huge chest, large enough to hold a man, but she will not allow me, your oldest retainer, to look inside.

Nuri went to his wife's room and found her sitting beside the massive wooden box.

Will you show me what's in the chest, he asked?

Because of the suspicion of a servant, or because you do not trust me?

Why don't we just open it?

I do not think it possible, she said.

Is it locked?

Yes.

Where is the key?

She held it up. Dismiss the servant and I will give the key to you.

The servant was dismissed. The woman handed over the key and left the room, obviously troubled.

Nuri Bey thought for a long time. Then he called four gardeners from his estate. Together they carried the chest by night unopened to a distant part of the grounds, and buried it.

The matter was never referred to again.

I checked my watch, perhaps to show client L. the story was finished.

But if he doesn't make her happy then he could spend the rest of his life burying chests in the garden.

Maybe, I said, gently.

Later, I had coffee alone in the kitchen. I thought of the package on my kitchen table. Nuri Bey would go home and bury it in his garden. He was a family man, not a liberator of women. Yes, indeed, sometimes in life we must put our intelligence into preserving mysteries, not exposing them. With this thought I darted quickly up the stairs, quietly passed Helen's room, and couldn't help but wonder, as I entered my own, if Axel had remembered the Chorier.

Several weeks ago I ordered a picture. Did anyone ever love women as much as Courbet? Finally it arrived, yesterday, Woman With Parrot. My intention was to hang it in the kitchen at work, hoping it would inspire Helen and I around the kettle. But since throwing up everywhere maybe my role as interior decorator is somewhat tarnished. And yet, Gareth was unduly kind to me that morning. He helped me clean the floor, ran my trousers, then my shirt, under a tap. He knew where all the disinfectants were kept. He performed these jobs quietly, calmly, as if he were always cleaning the terrible mess of other men. We've worked together for nearly fifteen years but it wasn't only a kindness of longevity. I was reminded that the overriding impulse of Gareth's life is to expose his errant father, to reveal to his mother the terrible sins of man. And yet, of course, when the man is revealed, or confesses everything, or is found throwing up in a kitchen, then he finds an unexpected pity, a tenderness for the man he's hounded, and in that moment Gareth finds a soul. Born of pity, but no matter, a soul. So, contrary to so much evidence, I had thrown up in front of the right person, and was honoured he could help me. In keeping, he quietly mopped the floor, washed my trousers, then the shirt and will not speak of it again. I will thank him later, or buy him a piece of fruit.