End of the world and I feel fine

After a blissful weekend of picnics on the beach, swimming in the sea, cream teas, mackerel grilled straight from the ocean (butter, black pepper, a twist of lemon) and a bit of light surfing, I popped into the local shop on the way home for an ice cream.

"How are things?" I asked the (normally) cheery old lady behind the counter.

"Oh," she said, ringing up the lolly, "a pile of crap as usual."

This got me thinking.

I'd just lost a tennis match to someone who has never beaten me in our entire history of playing. The lovely family I'd had staying, well, their kids got up at 6am every morning and found whistles and drums I never even knew I had. My mortgage (up for renewal in a couple of weeks) is set to double practically. The refurb on my flat still isn't finished. It now costs £45 to fill the car when it always used to cost £28, and a recent phone call to my agent to tell her how thrilled and excited I am about the novel I'm writing went like this: "It's brilliant! I can't wait to let you have a look at it. It's about Afghanistan and it's just the kind of film Brad Pitt would want to make." "Look," she said, "the climate for fiction is worse than it's ever been. Don't bank on a sale."

By the time I got home, I was praying for the End Times.

It only goes to show that in these times of economic meltdown, it never does to answer the question, 'How are you?' accurately. ·