There   was  an old  woman  who  lived  in  a  breast.  It was designed by an 

eccentric architect; he  built  a  few  in  the  Seventies  along this stretch  of 

coast.  There   would   have   been   little   else   here   then,   apart  from  a 

Buckminster  Fuller  inspired  geodesic  dome    so  the  effect from the sea 

would  have  been of giant, single-breasted Amazons, asleep on the beach.

The  old  woman  was  called  Denise.  She  walked  the  shore  at sunset in 

white  cotton  gloves.  She would feel my calves as if they were fetlocks   as

if  I  were  a  racehorse  and  she kept racehorses. She died last year. Round

houses  are  notoriously  difficult  to  furnish,  and   provoke   vivid   dreams. 

Denise  had  a  gymnasium  in  her  basement,  entered  through  a  hidden

door  on  the  beach,  and   furnished   with  a  sturdy,   leather-upholstered

massage  table.  She  fashioned  weights  from  sand-filled  water bottles.  I 

took  her  to  the  doctors  once,  meeting  her  at  dawn  at  a modest door

below  the  main  entrance,  which  was  approached  by  a  concrete,  shell-

studded  gangplank;  dramatic  and  never used. Now there are wild cats in 

her  tennis  courts,  and  the swimming  pool sings with  frogs.