My eyes ache, and my pockets are the same style as my belly: open and all-empty. I force myself to focus with religious tenacity. It is not a poor thing, to fast, non?

(Pretend you're a Saracen and it's Ramadan. You can eat after the sun sets. Or rather, after you get home, for the sun will have been dead and gone long before then...)

Though were I to be truly pious and or honest, I'd have to admit that I did spend a bit of the theoretical pretend-money on a candy bar earlier, which seems to be the only option available to me, save overdrawing spectacularily at the ATM. But I do not fancy spending $35 on a BLT, even if it is a Very Good BlT, and even if it will all be covered tomorrow. If I'm going to spend that much on food, Sil and I will get splattered at James Joyce, thanks.

James Joyce, by the by, is a marvellous Irish Pub whereat all the servers are immigrants, charming to look at, and absolutely indecipherable. I love it.

Eh, I'll not dwell upon it, but role play furtively until I Must Needs write my paragraph of Italian, and shut out the sound of my rumbling tum.

<<agé chose>>

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