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 verypale man she called Gerry.