"Look" said the self-pitying Perineum, "Look. You eyes: Do not lower yet in your illness - but see out over the city, here from the office window: it has caused your streaming sickness.

"How? you ask. Maybe it was that shuffling commuter - or that one or that one or that one - from whom a particle of sneeze dropped out from his nose and onto his knees while on some train, then drifted outside and into the rain, from where it flew into some corner of you? Who knows? Who?

"But, look. Admist this city and the attack of its air, the most you can hope for is to be like me: tucked away in folds of fat, all sweet and sticky, jolting along blindly - unimportant, unnoticed, undecided - not knowing your own luck, true, but (now and again) tickled!"

And I, Fist, reply: "Perineum, so what? Make a Wish - it's the same as a Want - which is not far from a Punch, and for that act of Will, there's always a Way, even when his Health has wandered away. You don't think its true? Then next time I pull down his pants, I'll show you."