What the hell has that Editor been doing? What the hell has she been doing? I go away for oh, so very few days, and she drags out the old poetry files [The turquoise ink files, no less - Ed] and, oh God, the humiliation.
*Outburst of sobbing*
[As much as I enjoyed it, I also did it because I thought your poetic development over the past seventeen years might be of some little interest.]
You have got to be joking. Poetic development?
[Well, from very formal, if astonishingly sentimental, adolescent maunderings, to aggressive sub-Plath free verse, to very formal, if completely anal, adult reticence]
*Long pause*
Now, look, it is possible I have a great deal to say on the matter, at some point, if all else fails, but I have just spent five hours on an assortment of trains, and while I did indeed get a seat, it was near a man who drank beer, belched, and whistled, so, if you don’t mind, I will pour myself a very large gin, slap the Editor upside the head, and go to bed.