Thinking about narrative and such things, it seems to me that the ultimated conceptual/perceptual categories are participant and circumstance. The element -p-c which belongs to neither category is that which opens up the situation, the intertextual, that of which the perception makes things new. Dare I call it the becoming? Its grammatical equivalent is the verb. The element +p-c is the behaver, the active subject, the participant which is not constrained. The element -p+c is the surrounding circumstances, the backdrop, that against which the dynamic perception plays out. And the element +p+c is the participant that is drawn into the action, which becomes a quality of that action.
These four elements may be augmented in various ways. To give the augmented Jakobsonian scheme we introduce a third, symbolic dimension, so that a textual function stands as counterpart within the text to the intertextual, a phatic function corresponds to the behavioural (expressive), a poetic function corresponds to the referential, and a metalingual function to the conative.
This eightfold way will also recall the combinations of Lacan's symbolic, real and imaginary and Halliday's verbal categories (relational = symbolic, existential = symbolic & real, etc, etc).

Monday, April 30. Some dynamic driving on my part, L having previously driven, and we were back in Oxford soon after lunch. Passed through Nether Wallop, but other Wallops escaped us, or we them. Only made one major mistake. Many minor ones were committed along the way, since the positions of the indicators and wipers were the reverse of normal - more than once I cut in to the surprise of an English driver after signalling with the windscreen wipers. L urged me to repeat after her 'the indicators are on the left', but I thought that would be beneath me. To the surprise of both of us we managed what we had to do in Oxford without taking a single wrong turn. Then it was just Heathrow and wait for the plane. Which was delayed. Two passengers had failed to turn up, so their baggage had to be found and the bombs it contained unloaded. In the course of which, a forklift driver drove into the side of the plane and made a hole in it. We sit for an hour, while the captain reports consultation between Qantas and Airbus Industrie etc, etc. In the end, it seems, they decide to put on a piece of sticky tape and carry on as if nothing had happened. Doesn't do wonders for your confidence. The meals, however, were as nice as anything I'd eaten recently, which is something new. Lots of empty seats, due no doubt to $A - after Singapore, L and I could have 3 seats each. Back now, tired but happy.

Sunday, April 29. Wet and wild. Drove to Broadoak, a hamlet in the middle of nowhere, along deep lanes strewn with broken branches, foliage meeting overhead, banks starred with flowers of wild garlic. A small church, late C19 and very plain - diamond windows with glass of a couple of pale colours. All through the service, the wind slammed against them, and once wrenched open the door, sending a flood of rain inside. Few in the congregation under about 50, which didn't seem a good sign, but all enthusiastic. Afterwards to lunch with Nerissa and David J - our one time landlords at Church Farm Cottage - I noticed that at midday the thermometer in Nerissa's car was reading 6.5 degrees. Later to Church Farm Cottage itself and afternoon tea. Tomorrow we leave.

Saturday, April 28. Shower apparatus, though very beautiful, also very stupid (though L couldn't work the one at Maureen's either). Think you and your mistress are supposed to loll in the bath and take turns spraying one another, but that's not what we did. We didn't lounge in our fluffy bathrobes sipping champagne, either. Couples we saw at breakfast didn't look like master-mistress pairings. One of breakfast options was snails, so naturally had to order them. Cooking turned out to be undistinguished, so glad we hadn't had dinner last night. Then to Bridport, walking around the town, savouring the things we remembered, bemoaning unnecessary changes. In particular, where Hodges' bakery used to be is now a health food shop and advertises 'natural remedies'. As L said, 'what could be better for you than a lardy cake?' In particular, bakeries and teashops are now very few - they used to be full of women taking a break from the day's shopping, but now that all women capable of independent locomotion are at work, there is no custom. L bought an early E. Nesbit in a 2nd hand bookshop; I was tempted by some Angela Brazils, but reflected that I probably had them already, or might as well have, Ms Brazil being a repetitive kind of author.
Mike & Gail F and Gail's sister Vanessa for morning tea - Vanessa's daughter Buffy used to stay with us when she was doing Vet, Moss Vale being a rather long commute. Now ministers to the cats and dogs of Hampshire, and does a lot of operating, Vanessa tells us, because her partner in the practice doesn't care for that side of things. Maureen had just been telling us a horror story about their dog and an ingrowing grass seed, so felt Hampshire would be all the better for Buffy's ministrations.
In the evening to Powerstock Cider Festival, in village hall. A very vernacular event. Red cheeks obligatory, shaved heads/leather jackets optional. 20 or so local ciders you could try - crowd thick and animated. Most little different from poison, but there were two I liked. An authentic Cornish pasty with leathery pastry and a couple of sausage rolls helped line the stomach. As evening wore on, cider makers started giving it away, L & I danced to a loud band. Then home, having laid a good foundation for a headache.