There’s a witty line in one of Pink Floyd’s songs: hanging on in a quite desperation is the English way. I wish at times that I was English. So I can drink a pint each night and to mull over that every year is getting shorter, never seen to find the time; plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines. Wonderful prose from the guys in Pink Floyd. But then there's David Bowie. And everything is ruined.