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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