Floating souls filled with rolling nanotubes

Margaret woke to tell me there were people in this world who thought that dungbeetles rolled dung. In my hazy half-awake state I said I was one of those people. That's when she told me that people ought to stop categorising beings - human or non - by what they do. She had renamed the species optimistic-creatures-of-general-good-tolerance-in-a-divided-world. I suggested that this was as bad as rolling dung. She pulled the duvet off me and told me she was ready for a cup of tea.

Bessy had spent the entire night looking at a picture of the molecular configuration of a nanotube. I believe she has designs on being the first dog to pass through one - but I don't pry.

Felix tells me the Big Bang was no great party (he was there) and that all the universe as it wasn't known then got way out of hand and that's why he ended up on his bench looking at the English Channel. Not that he's got a wrong word to say about spontaneous combustions and the like - but he might have been projected onto another spinning rock. I guess the grass is always...

George had great news this morning: his mother bought a place in Torquay when he was a child and forgot to tell him. He arranged for some of his friends and himself to make their way there whilst maintaining their souls in helium-filled balloons hovering undecidedly at a distance of some metres above the ground. I asked if this wasn't a perilous task given that at his age one was less certain of a soul returning. I don't think he liked that because he scowled and said my balloon would not float on account of my heavy burden of sin. It's times like that when I think there has to be a reason why I employed George.

Cookie was on an about-turned parasol with our first patient of the day - Flot of the Shells (she renamed herself) - somewhere inside the pattern of the sun printed on the canvas. I asked if there was anyway for me to remove the wisdom tooth she'd come in to have removed without disturbing the configuration. Cookie said that was a silly question as there was no such thing. I was about to ask 'what' when I realised that Flot was never really a patient at all and just a hypothetical manifestation of Cookie's imagination that happened to walk in through the door one day and shake my hand.

Which, I suppose, is where Margaret was coming from when I woke this morning: there are ways of defining someone - and other ways. And there are places we arrive and places we never visited. And there are probably ways of thinking about the places we never went - and other ways of thinking about them. And there are very little things that matter alot - and very big things that don't matter at all. It's all about definitions and opinions and where one's soul is floating.