There's something sick about us, W. says, something depraved. Only it's not just about us, says W., but about the whole world. We're seismographic, W. says. We register the great horrors of the world in our guts. That's why you're always about to soil yourself, says W. It's why you have a continual nosebleed and always feel sick.
Many illnesses have passed through W.'s body. We're weak, he says, the runts of the litter. Something has come to an end with us. We're the end of the line in some important way. It all finishes here, W. says, pointing at his body and then pointing at mine. Especially here, says W., pointing to my stomach.
My obesity always impresses him, W. says. My greed. The way I eat, the amount I eat. He'd call me a carnal man, W. says, but that sounds too grand. You're just full of greed. What would I be like if I didn't go to the gym?, W. wonders. It's all channelled into my enormous thighs, W. says. They're grotesque, he says. You're out of proportion. And my great fat arms.
For his part, W. takes no exercise. He hasn't felt well for many years – eleven or twelve. There was a time when he'd go for great walks on the moor, he remembers. He had a walking friend, of course. You can't go walking on your own, that would just lead to enormous melancholy. That's what I always say, isn't it: that going out walking on my own would lead to enormous melancholy?
W. also feels it. He's essential agrophobic, W. says. He's only really happy holed up in his room, working. He'd prefer never to leave his house, says W. Or indeed his office. He'd like to hole himself up like Howard Hughes, he says, with bottles of toenails and urine. It's only the love of a good woman which saves him from that.
Now and again, he thinks he should walk to work, or cycle. But it's too far, and all uphill. It would only depress him, W. says. In the end, he's not cut out for exercise. He'll lead a short life, says W., as will I. a short, unfulfilled life, which will come to nothing. What it all been for?, W. asks. Nothing, he says. We're runts of the litter, W. says.
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