Hungry Like A Nicotine-Deprived Wolf. Not That Duran Duran Have Ever Been In That Particular Situation.

Oh, my God. I've got over my hangover, just in time to starve to death.

"Don't eat that," says Max this morning, when he spots me about to make some toast. "Can't you see the mould on that bread?"

"No," I say. I must be wearing the wrong glasses, again. "Can you get some when you go to Sainsburys? I think we're almost out of milk, as well."

"Um, no," says Max. "I've been meaning to talk to you about buying food."

Then he gives me that look. The one that involves not looking at me. It's much, much scarier than a glare would be.

"What is it?" I say, as all my muscles tighten, and my digestive system grinds to a sudden halt.

"I can't actually go shopping."

Max grinds to his own halt - but I'm not sure if that's the end of the sentence, or whether there's an explanation to follow, so I stand still and wait to find out. It takes ages, but eventually he carries on:

"We haven't got any money left, you see."

"Oh," I say. "Ah. Okay. Well, we'll just have to economise then, won't we? We knew this would happen now you've lost your job. How much is actually left in the account?"

"Nothing," says Max, very slowly and deliberately. "That is what I am trying to tell you."

I know I should be practical, and positive, and find a creative way out of this situation, but I think I may have to sit down first, and have a fag.

Oh, Christ. Have a fag. If there's no money for food, then there's none for tobacco, either, is there? And the incidence of violent crime in Northwick may be about to rise.