He was woken at two thirty by the pressure in his bladder. That never used to happen. He wondered, as he stood draining into the bowl, whether he should be worried that his stream was so weak. He thought of Joyce, of Stephen and Bloom at the end of their day, pissing side by side at night in the garden. Ithaca. Once Roland had possessed Stephen’s trajectory, ‘higher, more sibilant’. Now he had Bloom’s, ‘longer, less irruent’.
