She says –  ‘something light, ten minutes, no more, but not this, not Othello again, he’s depressing, so glum, and lethally talkative’. Desdemona has her own florist, perfumer, mortician. I feel the weight of the water in Albert Dock closing in. Gin, probably. I should never have loved her to the point of immersion. Brick, rope, tarp, just outside the Tate, the Slavery museum. T’would have been November, they tried to stop me. Stop! Stop! I must stop fantasizing alternative narratives. She didn’t leave me, the Beatles Museum isn’t real, and anyway, who wants a white piano in New York? I watch Othello alone, hiding behind the sofa, in my life jacket, sucking my prayer beads, and new book of irish blessings. Iago wins Strictly dressed as Jane Russell, and I am feeling better and better. I could dance.