An interlude to the emotional turmoil. There was a big review article in one of last week's Evening Standards about a new book of Philip Larkin's letters. I don't know his poetry but there was an excerpt as something he'd written in a letter to Monica on 27 Nov 1968. I rather like it.
Morning, noon & bloody night, Seven sodding days a week, I slave at filthy work, that might Be done by any book-drunk freak. This goes on til I kick the bucket: FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT