The trouble starts when you get up in the morning and don't know what day it is. That's not all, its when you genuinely don't know what day it is and along with neither the day's date nor year nor month. The last evening that you may have spent in some fashion doesn't not stick in your head, and to this particular detail whether which drink you drank or in whose mouth your tongue was lost.
The tale turns Kafkaish, and emptiness pours in your mind.

Good afternoon, everything is fucked up as usual! Thank you.

Oh yes thought I might tell you -- as this is space where we be honest, don't we? -- that I read Marquez' Chronicles of a Death Foretold. Its on my course this year. Yes it is fucking brilliant! Also, I would like to say that I'm pleased Kiran Desai has braced the Booker. had interviewed her when the book was released. I feel damn happy.