On the practical level, there was no immediate problem: we had seventeen bedrooms. I moved into one of those overlooking the cliffs and the sea; Isabelle, apparently, preferred to contemplate inland. Fox went from room to room, it amused him a lot; he suffered no more from it than a child from the divorce of his parents, rather less, I’d say.

Could things continue in this way for a long time? Well, unfortunately, yes. During my absence, I had received 732 faxes (and I must acknowledge, there too, that Isabelle had regularly changed the paper tray); I could spend the rest of my days running from one festival invitation to the next. From time to time, I’d stop by: a little caress for Fox, a little bit of Tranxene, and Bob’s your uncle. For the moment, however, I was in need of a complete rest. I therefore went to the beach, on my own, obviously—I wanked a little on the terrace while ogling naked teenage girls (I too had bought a telescope, but it wasn’t for looking at the stars, ha ha ha); in short, I was muddling through. I muddled more or less well; although, all the same, I almost threw myself off the cliff three times in two weeks.