Voluptuaries

Fie upon breakfast meetings, especially those without breakfast. Up too early, the rest of the morning was a haze. I went, straight after the meeting, for compensatory snacks. I filled my office table: falafels, salsa dip, pretzel sticks, prawn crackers, sandwiches.

In my lunch break, I make a trip to the library to find books on Kafka. And then, between the aisles, feel an immense tiredness. I want to lie down, to sleep. I sink down; I am close to the books. And then I spot a couple of books I never seen before whose spines were too faded to read their titles from a standing position. Two books, one with a marvellous essay by Martin Walser on The Castle and The Trial.

As I walk back to my office, I notice the wind has changed; it has become mild, the ice on the pavement has melted. R.M. is in the office; tomorrow, she has her viva. I tell her I’m so tired we will have to listen to our ‘going home music’ now. We have a strict rota: in the morning, The Killers and Secret Machines, in the afternoon, when R.M. gets panicky and lies down on what she calls ‘the floor of dread’, the Brahms violin sonatas. Then, in the evening, quite late on (9 or 10), it is time for a ‘going home song’: at the moment, the last track from the sixth Lilac Time album, which sounds as it were made for a carnival. It’s on again now.

Afternoon. Time to work. I still have a discounted salmon pate beside me and a few pretzels. I’ll save them for four o’ clock. As I work, I can still taste the meal R.M. and I ate last night at the Spanish restaurant. ‘What was the name of the black pudding dish?’ I ask her. And the peach spirit we drank after dessert? But she has left her receipt in her handbag at home. Then: ‘Do you know what we are, R.M.? Voluptuaries’.