The diary of Digby Slingsby, author

MONDAY. Hateful morning. Wife made a hell of a racket getting the kids off to school and herself off to work. Spite. Impossible to get to sleep again, so just dozed for a while then switched the radio on. Hoped to borrow an idea or two from that chatty after‐breakfast programme, but was horrified to hear the morning service in full moan. Can't stand it. It's totally unfair to us writers—no script, just some out‐of‐copyright hymns and psalms plus a bit of ad‐libbing. Must get the Society of Authors to sort that out and, while they're in that area, they can look into the lending of hymn‐books in churches. Ten‐thirty. Couldn't get comfortable, so got up. Kitchen in a mess. Dishes washed and left to drain, although she knows I like them dried straightaway. Sheer bloody idleness. No bacon in the fridge; none in the freezer either. Those articles about authors needing Public Lending Right so that they can eat properly don't exaggerate one little bit. Had a miserable four‐egg omelette.