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.
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”?
My bedroom is in a state of such grisliness that I ask myself whether I have now hit A New Low.
Yes, my love life may be in need of a spark, but I won’t use Tinder to get the flames going.
At least I’ve mastered Italian. Well, enough to sing “Jealous Guy” and discuss the works of Caravaggio.
One does not, for example, read a thoughtful column about Brexit only to stumble across the words, three-quarters of the way through, “And on top of this all, I’m not even Getting Any.”
Between football, Westminster and Brexit, there seems to be little good news at the moment. And now it looks like Linda is hanging up her apron.