Fast living

In Competition No. 2490 you were invited to give an account of the life of a historical figure condensed into seven days.
The assignment was inspired by a 19th-century nursery rhyme which tells the bleak tale of Solomon Grundy, who was born on a Monday and apparently dead by Sunday. It struck terror into me as a child, having the tone of a cautionary tale but giving no discernible clue as to what SG might have done to deserve such a grim fate. Of course I know now that it’s a riddle, stupid.
The standard was exceptionally high, and it was a struggle to whittle it down to just six. The bonus fiver, though, goes to Basil Ransome-Davies. The other prizewinners, printed below, get a well-deserved £25 each.

Friday, April 13, 1906. Born astride the grave in Foxrock. Why Foxrock? No explanation forthcoming. Bowled a few good overs for the Uni. Never enough. Overs over, went to Paris. Met the jimmyjoyce, a man after my own kidney.
Saturday. Academe, a dream, a hole in the head. I’ve had enough of that, had it right up to here goes nothing. Travel abroad broadens the whadd’yecallit. Broadens the grind. And all that.
Sunday. Stabbed by a pimp, name of Prudent. It’s not what you’d expect. Not that I mind. He had the mind to it, that’s all. No explanation forthcoming, but you could call it an act of faith. I bled all right. A bleeding writer, me.
Monday. Better France at war than Ireland at peace. There’s an axiom for you. We could all be doing without the Germans, though. A little of them goes a long way, god knows. But he’s not letting on.
Tuesday. Peace on earth. And under the earth. And now your atomic weaponry can blow us all to smithereens.