WHEN it gets bad, normally about the 16th of the month when my mortgage payment whisks out the bank account along with factoring fees, union dues and ludicrously high council tax payment (Band E?
Seriously? I don't even have a kitchen. I keep my blender in my bedroom and my crockery under the arm chair), I send up a resigned cry: "I need a sugar daddy."
It's not a serious aspiration but, y'know, if George Clooney came knocking...
Please enable cookies in your browser to display the rest of this article.