Intolerable writing conditions

The worst thing about success is that it is intensely boring to read about. As I lie about the house here in Berlin, sipping champagne from the slipper of Kate Moss, while scratching that difficult-to-reach itch in the small of my back with the stiletto heel of Heidi Klum, I am in agony, LITERAL EXISTENTIAL AGONY, wondering what to blog about. "Tell me again your fascinating Theories of the Comedy, Julian," whispers Heidi in my ear, and I swat her away with her own discarded... what on earth is that thing? So tiny, how does she... Dammit, I am trying to Think.

How can a man be expected to write under these intolerable conditions?  How I yearn for the good old days, when I was homeless, my belly rumbling, writing Jude by flickering candlelight, in a cardboard box, under a bridge.

Wish I'd never won the bloody  National Short Story Prize.