In fact the Pieces only amounted to 467,519

If I were any sort of person I'd be posting about the James Frey/Oprah thing - man makes lots of money with drugs and crime memoir, endorsed by Oprah who defends him against accusations of fraud, turns out to be a fraud, has botty spanked by Oprah on TV, may change the way publishers check non-fiction books. But I'm not. Not right now.

But I will say that my man with a book resurfaced. I did think he was dead.

So I did that detox for work and it fucked me. Then I had delicious duck and gorgeous creme brulee (you can fill the accents in yourself, you've got italics, what more do you want?) by way of a work thing on Monday, and one or other of those has fucked me. Is this God's way of telling me to be more idle, or just to eat greasy kebabs and belch and never attempt to do healthy things or eat nice food?

Yes, I'm poisoned, woe, woe. For the last two days I've either been asleep or chained to the loo, one way or another. Total food intake as of five minutes ago is one red apple, four slices of bread and Marmite and about half a box of Ritz crackers which I fell upon Tuesday evening and rent asunder. My stomach has taken complete leave of its senses and is going to have to be persuaded that all food is not evil. I am all feeble and rubbish, and bad-tempered, and afraid, and bilious and sad. What's that Japanese proverb that goes something like

Dance and sing - an inch from us is black night

OK so this ain't black night, it's just a bastard bout of food poisoning, but it's amazing how things can look shiny-dupa one week and then look thoroughly grim the next, with not a great deal of actual change. Bleh.

I might start on one of my new books, about a crack addict. That'll rally me. Even if some of it is fibs. Dirty, filthy, crack-addled fibs.

Have some pictures entirely unrelated to the above in a pleasantly whimsical sort of fashion.

(At present I'd rather be where that one was taken.)