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.
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.
A cat isn’t much of a substitute for a husband – but it’s better than nothing, and furrier.
Going to Hull twice in three months was a bit of a blessing, as it kept me away from the menace of London.
Old folks dancing, a toy monkey and thirty Swiss francs a day. I never want to come home again.
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