I sit in my kitchen in muted celebration and I wonder. What would Byron or Shelley think of the modern day poet?

I began the day with a slice of delicious homemade quiche. For me, this is a luxury to be savored and rightly so.

Upon completing a novel, I have little doubt that Byron would have partaken in all kinds of debauchery and got up to all sorts of naughtiness.

I felt a little ashamed and popped out for some vodka. Though I feel a bit better about things, I can’t help thinking that I was born in the wrong century.

Vodka is great but opium has to be better. By the same logic though, quiche tastes better than a whore and at a fraction of the cost.

I think the poets of old might have missed a trick there

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