So these are my last hours, my last few days as a slob, as a professional writer. In an hour I must liaison with Emmanuel the beautiful Greek dentist. He shall certificate my mouth for imperfections, a ridiculous concept. My mouth is delicious, cavernous, my tongue since the cow tongue transplant has performed on every occasion.
Then tomorrow at half past eight in the morning, for god’s sake, I meet the boss to hand over my passport. Then next Monday begins my first full shift at the chicken farm. I have less than a week for drinking barley wine and dressing in all of my different pyjamas. No more bedroom catwalk for me.
I urge you,on behalf of all humanity, Mr Penguin I plead, the Arthurian Press, Open Pen, this is your last chance to save me from getting a job.