A Day in the life of Lucius De Vere, gentleman

Edinburgh 1840

'Have we eaten today? 'Asked McCullough.

De Vere turned from his desk, bleary eyed from working, or so he
thought, most of the night.
'No;but when I get this story finished I will take it to the
offices myself and then' he paused as if searching for the right word
in order to make the effect more pronounced upon his unfortunate
servant. Eventually tiredness and a night of opium were taking their
toll and he left the sentence unfinished.

McCullough ignored his master's words, indeed he had learned most of
his time serving Lucius Fensham de Vere ignoring his opium addicted
words, and wrapping his moth eaten overcoat about his malnourished
frame, began to make a fire out of the few scraps of paper and three
pieces of coal left in the grate.

Soon there was at least some warmth in the room and McCullough felt
encouraged enough to make more conversation.

'What are you writing?' Hunger, or rather starvation and opium had
brought master and servant so close together so as to ignore the
formalities of speech.

De Vere turned languidly and said
'It is an account of my time at Harrow with;'
'The late lamented Lord Byron' McCullough cut in, De Vere scarcely
wrote anything else, apart from a few poems whose meaning was beyond
him, and possibly de Vere's too.
'I don't expect you to understand. But today is Friday and if I can get
it to The Review by three they will publish' DeVere added, unaware that
he was in no state to understand what he was writing either.

The morning wore on and soon the fire was out, neither noticed until De
Vere got up from his chair, unsteadily with several pieces of paper in
his hand
'This is it' He shouted excitedly, almost knocking McCullough out of
the way.
'It is finished&;I shall take this to the Edinburgh Review
myself and we shall eat!'
He stressed the last word as if neither he nor his skeletal servant had
ever done such a thing.

McCullough clapped his hands and helped his master put on his best
overcoat and top hat, reserved for special occasions although both were
stained with brandy and mud.

McCullough had been waiting for some time when his master
returned.

'Today is not Friday' De Vere said, looking blank and shaking.

McCullough did not understand

'Today is Sunday;they have printed this month's, McCullough
and we shall not...eat, shall we?'

De Vere then collapsed on the bare
floorboards.