Clouding finite wonders with soaking bicycles

Bessy challenged me to a game of plant your favourite story about wheat and barley in the furthest cloud you can reach before you have to breathe again. It would appear that I held my breath a little too long and have just returned to consciousness. I'm not sure if I won or not - Bessy's nowhere to be seen.

I found that Margaret had spent the time without me creating another myth in which to live. At least, that's what she says. I commented that everything looked pretty much the same to me, but apparently it doesn't - and the corridor in the world through which I walk has been altered forever.

I was pleased to find it still found its way along the south coast cliffs with their view over the English Channel, and that Felix was waiting for me as usual. He, it would appear, has been on his own travels and returned with little idea of their purpose. I asked where he'd been. He looked at me with that look that reminds me of my childhood washing lollypops in brine at the front of the class when I should have been calculating something important - that look of the teacher who has to explain again why it's useful to know the square root of 367,946.25344. (Inicidentally - can anyone do that by long division?) It would seem that I know where Felix went because there are only a finite number of places it could have been. I conceded that but reminded him that finity streched to infinity. We drank our tea in silence, as Felix felt no compulsion to continue discussing the subject.

George has been using the intervening time to work on his aquarobics, or something. Anway - his hair was wet and his leotard was dripping behind reception when I arrived at the surgery this morning. I said he looked like he'd been having fun and he said that he didn't do things for fun but for the beautiful effect it was likely to have on the spiralling crystals of snow building in the sky above. I asked if he was up to something with Bessy, but he would have none of it and told me to get to work.

Cookie had pinned herself to the ceiling in an attempt to come to some sort of understading with the inarticulate and unrepresented in the world, starting with plasterboard and paint. This she was merrily eplaining to our first patient, who happened to be the watchmaker from the High Street whose dream is to ride a bicycle without wheels all the way round the world. Some people really have spirit.

And so I have returned and the myth continues in some form or another. Gladly I note the presence of those I love and their presentation to me of all sorts of wonders that, I trust, are not finite.