One of the good things about not going to work is being able
to start the piles of unread books that seem to have entered my home over the
last decade or more.
Literature, however, can be brutal. Take this poem by Rose
Tremain in her short novel, “Letter to Sister Benedicta” :-
She’s gone to Milan
with her smart young man
leaving her furs
and all that was hers
including the very
pale man she called Gerry.