You wake with a headful of cement and a Gobi desert-dry throat. You reach for the packet on the dresser and from the cement a voice yells: Bobby! You wrestle with your flaky conscience. Just one is served. Remember Bobby is returned. Your mind is a tennis court.

            You get up, crave the packet which lies so near to hand but steel yourself against it, go downstairs, swallow a cup of strong tea and munch toast. You wash, dress, put the unopened packet in your pocket, drive to work.