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terrible clinical eye, must already suspect something about my state of health. And that's why what will no longer matter then, matters so much now: what will become of B (I can't imagine not being a witness to his life: death doesn't just rob us of our lives, but also of everyone else's), and of Dayanand himself, of Roger, Ted and Clare and of our dear Spaniard. I saw them today, they were together, fresh from an embrace, standing by the window, looking more amused than amorous and also a little melancholy, as if they regretted not being able to love each other more. It was lucky I arrived first, and not Ted. I don't know what they want, or what Clare wants, nor why they've made me their confidant and in a way their accessory. I'd rather be in the same state of blissful ignorance as Ted. The other day Clare came to see me in my office between classes; she was even more excitable than usual and desperate to talk to me. I gave her three minutes that stretched into six (an irritated young Bottomley was waiting outside, an arrogant, critical look on his face), during which time she talked of nothing in particular, nothing coherent, she just talked about Ted, it seemed he was the only thing in the world that mattered to her. She didn't call me later to continue the conversation, silence, nothing. Today, on the other hand, to my great surprise I noticed a foot, her foot, probing my right calf under the table. Clare's foot was stroking my calf. Luckily, we were in the Halifax where they have long tablecloths. I realised at once that what she was really after was the left leg of our Spanish friend seated next to me, so, fixing her with wide, slightly reproachful eyes, I discreetly took her foot and transported it to its true and desired resting place, the foreign knee. Then, of course, I took no further interest in things subterranean, in fact I swiftly renewed my conversation with Ted, fearful lest he realise what was going on down below. I found it both extremely embarrassing and extremely amusing, and felt guilty to feel that. I worry about all three of them and wonder how it will all end. We've got months ahead of us yet, we're only halfway through Michaelmas. But I can't help seeing the funny side of things, despite my years of friendship with Ted, my general concern about Clare and about my own health. At any rate, the first thing I told B about tonight was the case of the mistaken limbs as being the most important event of the day or the one that might best distract him from his discontents. I'm just the same as ever, veering between rage and laughter, whichever life provokes in me, with no medium term; they're my two complementary ways of relating to and being in the world. I'm either furious or merry or both things at once, battling it out inside me. I don't change. This illness ought to change me, ought to make me more reflective, less excitable. The illness, however, provokes neither fury nor merriment in me. If it develops, if it's confirmed (I cross my fingers again), I'll just observe myself. I feel frightened.
     
     
     
    MY GUIDE AND MENTOR in the city of Oxford was Cromer-Blake and, four months after my arrival there, nine months before that same fifth of November, it was he who introduced me to Clare Bayes at one of the grandiloquent Oxford suppers known as high tables. These suppers take place once a week in the vast refectories of each of the different colleges. The table at which the diners and their guests sit is raised up on a platform and thus presides over the other tables (where the students dine with suspicious haste, fleeing as soon as they have finished, gradually abandoning the elevated guests to their solitude and thus avoiding the spectacle the latter end up making of themselves) and it is for this reason rather than because of any unusually high standard of cuisine or conversation that they are designated "high tables". The suppers are formal (in the Oxonian sense) and for members of the congregation