Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
Beware young fogeys.
Feeling peaky but virtuous, I decide that I’m not going to drink this evening.
I smoke in honour of the orange president, even as tobacco companies try to make me quit.
Spaghetti carbonara, or, as I see it, bacon and eggs applied to a foreign base for a spurious sophistication.
“When I ring this bell,” I told my sceptical audience, “William and Kate will conceive a new child”.
It was quite wonderful, once again, to be able to do things such as go to restaurants, develop a fairly serious port habit and generally not scrounge.
Linda the landlady has gone, and even a stack of New Scientist magazines doesn't cheer me up. There's nothing for it but to look back.
I have now slept alone more nights than with a woman by my side: this is a cause for crisis. The mouse is back, too.
Not everyone gets to play cricket in Bangladesh but I still managed to notch up more worries than runs.
So I had to go to Dhaka. To its literary festival, to be precise.
No country has ever left the EU before, so there's no map for where we're going.
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