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.
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.
You’ll never get anyone with teeth like that, said C, and packed me off to the dentist.
Nicholas Lezard's Down and Out.
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.