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 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.
I write this, at 3.04pm on a sticky Thursday afternoon, in the state in which Adam, before his shame, strolled in the Garden of Eden.
A three-way ding-dong between son, mother and me, and all because of an Allen key.
I suppose that, as midlife crises go, what I did was better than buying a motorbike.
Why is it that when people answer the question “What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?” in the Guardian questionnaire they never say, “You’ve been served”?
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