7

I’ve become unwell once again, furry throat and tongue, pain at the top of the throat, overproduction of phlegm and fever, weakness, headaches, convulsive coughing, all brought about likely by the consuming of something not quite right at a party on Saturday night, a bacterial infection, often happens, incredibly susceptible, my sense is that I’m overly sensitive to others’ germs, maybe accidentally having drunk out of another’s glass, eaten party food lying out and handled by others, I wish I could isolate the problem. The party was quite an important event, though I should’ve saved myself for Andrew’s sixtieth the next day, a more important event because he’s a closer friend, but I didn’t because I was beginning to decline, and as usual I didn’t ring and apologise, this unwillingness to communicate is a real problem, I’m isolating myself more and more, à éliminer! The importance of the do for me was that it involved my first run-in with Catherine since our email exchange. I’d been thinking that I would confront her with something like ‘how’s the court case going?’ or even, ‘well, apology please?’, but she gave me a brief kindly smile and all that went by the bye. The usual proof that a couple of moments, even a split second, in the other’s company can do more to mend relations than scads of paperwork, not that things were mended exactly but we were both comfortable enough in each others’ company having gotten what we needed to get off our chests. I doubt if I’ll ever find out what she thought of my response, or if she ever read it, but I think it was a damn good one, and later her boyfriend Richard turned up, at least briefly, and gave me a wary but ultimately friendly hello, and I hope he too read my response, as I asked Catherine to send it to her ‘friends and supporters’. He seems a reasonable fellow, I hope they discussed the matter between them, discussed its truth and exaggerations and wit, for my ego’s sake. Now the party, terrible that I fell ill because of it, I get out and about so rarely and this has so put me off getting out and about again, in fact I’m now writing days later, having spent much time in bed, phlegmish, achey-jointed, runny-bummed, banging away like a motor with a blown head gasket (yes I've experienced that recently), the party was in the city, three narrow flights and very pristine, all metallic sheen and clean lines, a showpiece, a showpony, spangling new, with the owner’s classy brassy urban photos on the wall, Tokyo exotica on a neon backdrop, and we danced to Austin Powers eviscerated retro, mirrorball overhead in a narrow rectangle, nothing out of place, not a book to be seen, and I came shave-pated and suitable, looked the part to the point that even attractive women looked me over, not dead yet, but I avoided them and they drifted to more animate bodies, I was feeling my way, and feeling down, with all my money worries, money is energy.