Friday Grump

Since I got back from SoCal, I have trapped moths, fought off a virus, overslept, undershaved, waded through nettles to get to Barn Owl boxes, ignored the repeated wintry rainshowers of this amazing British July, dreamed unpleasant dreams about, well, never mind, and spoken happily once to the Allsop mass gathering in Auckland New Zealand (three adults, five children, and one I can't talk to yet because he/she isn't born till December).
So, why this Friday Grump? Because, MessieursMesdames, it turns out that I am working with the worst Commissioning Editor in recorded history (The Golden Oriole book refers). I have worked with about twenty different editors in my time, old young male female straight gay sober drunk bowlegged knockkneed naked dressed, and there were only two into whose ears I would not have pissed if their brains had been on fire. The rest were professional and gorgeous. But now I have finally met the obvious place to stuff the Giant Enema of Eternity.
This man is to publishing what Adolf Hitler was to race relations - or something like that, I am too angry to produce a better comparison right now - and in a just world would be immediately sacked by his bosses and apprenticed to a pastry-cook (Pascal).
"Publishers are people who drink champagne out of the skulls of their authors." It was never so true, and, because I don't want you to be left with an image of me as a wounded author, I will find and publish on this blog a photograph of a woman with an enormous bosom, in order to reaffirm my belief that there is a Divine Being who has a Divine Design and a Divine Purpose, which, if there is any Divine Justice, does not include my current Editor: Che gli bruci la casa! Che gli crepino i figli! etc.
PS Sorry, couldn't find a suitable bosomy woman, but a modest woman on a tractor is almost as good, nicht wahr?