[W]e are almost always in one place with our minds somewhere quite other. - Ford Madox Ford

This October like November,
That August like a hundred thousand hours,
And that September,
A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days,
And half October like a thousand years...

He had a great deal to think of if he was to get the hang of – he was certainly not going to interfere with – the world and having to listen to conversations that were mostly moral apophthegms had tired him. He got too many at too short intervals.

It is queer the fantastic things that quite good people will do in order to keep up their appearance of calm pococurantism.