The Shallow end

Monday: I hate Monday mornings, all publishers, literary editors of news‐papers and magazines, most so‐called fellow authors, the telly and my grasping agent Fiona—probably in that order. And after a whole weekend en famille, I'm not over‐fond of my nearest and dearest either. (Are you very busy dear? Couldn't you just … could you fix … and give a hand with … ? Mummy, Daddy's saying flaming rotten hell and things … Daddy's talking to himself again—he's saying poor old Digby, poor old bloody Digby. The cat was sick too.)