My mid-month impecuniosity obliges me to forgo the Downton Abbey dinner today. I've committed myself to helping with the Birmingham Arts Journal convention at the Leeds Arts Council next Thursday, and my share of the refreshments for that gathering will just about demolish what pittance I have left. As for me, "I could turn and eat grass with the animals," or some such Whitmanism. But I hate to invite people over and only offer them knife stew, potato peel pie and ice water.
Of course, all this is exaggeration, but it's near enough. The rest of the story is that I haven't been awake long enough to feel optimistic and human.
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