you go out and look into the shop windows. One could multiply these disasters by the hundred You discover what it is like to be hungry. Everywhere there is food insulting you in huge wasteful piles whole dead pigs baskets of hot loaves, great yellow blocks of butter, strings of sausages, mountains of potatoes, vast Gruyere cheeses like grindstones. A snivelling self-pity comes over you at the sight of so much food. They are part of the process of being hard up. You plan to grab a loaf and run, swallowing it before they catch you; and you refrain, from pure funk.