It has been a slow week. No visits to and from the police; no sleepless nights dealing with someone suffering from a full-blown episode of paranoid psychosis; no having to wait 45 minutes for 111 to answer, then giving up; no hiding out at a friend’s house for the night; no visits from any of the children; no being sort-of chatted up in trendy pubs; no agonising dealing with the bailiffs and handing over one’s pension; just dealing with lawyers about a matter that I will keep to myself for now, and coping with the crises of my friends. Those are private but, hoo boy, they really could fill a column or two.
A kind person from this magazine sent me a signed photograph of Angela Rayner and when I am in serious funds I shall get it framed, but for now it just stays on my bedside table, and every so often I turn to it and sigh. As for funds, I did have a mauvais quart d’heure today when I checked my bank balance and asked myself how I’d managed to go £100 past my overdraft limit overnight. But then I realised the sum was actually in credit: I’d been paid. I used to have a troubled relationship with the accounts payable department of this magazine, but for the last few years they have been absolute angels. Consider this mention an early Christmas card.
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