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I see George Saunders has published a story written by a fox. That Jan Carson thinks it's good so I suppose it must be, but the spelling's atrocious. What can you expect from a fox though? I, on the other hand, have had so many compliments regarding my addition to Mrs Gloom's blog that I've decided to help her out and do another. She's sick, and you never heard such moaning and groaning and cursing. First she had to miss the son-in-law's big match - something called Gaelic, where a lot of grown men who ought to know better run around with a football and sustain multiple injuries while they try to kill each other. Now she's having to miss the ballet tonight at the Grand Opera House. Ballet's another of those things where unnaturally thin humans with no inborn aptitude for leaping in the air and landing gracefully also sustain frequent injuries. It's beyond me. Oh god, here she comes now, croaking like a frog. 'Clementina, I've told you before, get away from my sodding laptop!' There's no gratitude is there? Just wait till I write my memoirs! She'll be sorry.
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