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.
I suppose I am due for my seven-yearly punch in the face by Time.
A quiet drink turns into an interrogation .. and no denial is good enough
The rest of the weekend . . . well, I had better pass over some of it in silence
“Is this yours?” I ask, stupidly.
Yes, even worse that "I don’t love you the way you want me to".
I hate and am absolutely terrified of wasps.
Over dinner, S—— tells me of her latest dating woes.
“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.
Everything is threadbare right now: my collars, most of my socks, my mind, and there’s a hole developing in the front of my 501s.
To clean my squalid bedroom would be tempting fate, I knew that – and then I went ahead and did it.
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