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.
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.
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.
The Zombie PM