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.
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.
As a dual US/UK citizen, I'm finding the best thing to do is seek distraction. But what genre of fiction can provide comfort?
My old flame still turns heads – sometimes you can actually hear neck muscles twanging.
It takes a kitten to set me musing on my father’s mildly bonkers habits and the quirks of heritability.
“Surely, he is not,” you are saying, “going to get a whole column out of a thermostat?”
So off I go to Birmingham, the city where J G Ballard meets Captain Kirk.
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