What to do when your poverty is dire and absolute; when you are addicted to junk; when you feel, in your self-delusion, that you have not a friend in the world; when it is so long since you have smiled that your cheek-muscles atrophy; when the bailiffs are coming to evict you on Wednesday morning?
You read the poetry of Tim Boucher, occult investigator and smile contentedly. All is well in the world.
