08 February 2015


In these final hours in the Wallingford House I have become a hen, where my abilities are largely of two sorts: inefficient pecking; and ruffled-feather, flustered, squawking hyperbole.

I know it will end, and I know there are still things to be done that I will be glad to have done, but I can't seem to get on track.

I am as effective as a chicken.

The packers come in 36 hours.

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