Postcard from Worcester

It seems that my premonitionary feeling about this weekend was not for no reason after all. Am sat in Joe Bird's spare room, writing on a keyboard that barely works. Out of the window, a Worcester twilight has begun to creep over a long, hot day. A walk by the river Severn today to a remote pub where the gardens were overrun with peacocks and turkeys.
I got a call at just before midday from Claire, telling me that the call centre has gone bust. Liquidated. 300 people, including me, out of a job, and not getting paid (as yet) for the last two weeks.
I would write more but Joe Bird's keyboard is impossible to write on, so this short postcard will have to do.
In closing though, I have no idea what happens next.
No idea at all.