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.
The small, red marks come from sitting at pub tables outside – and they herald the start of a joyous season.
There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.
Graduation first exiled me from the place; then, once I had regained a foothold, romantic disaster. Long story.
An email arrives from my contact at English Heritage. Would I like to go up to the top of the Wellington Memorial arch on Thursday? Of course I would.
Oh look, there’s the latest edition of the New Statesman, and I dutifully buy my weekly copy. It is the last moment of internal peace I know all Thursday.
And, on top of everything, my local is finally closing.
The young are much better than I was at their age; more socially attuned, more quietly confident, and with a wider vocabulary. How they do this without reading books is a mystery to me.
Even as my column shrunk, my pay remained the same - until, the editor told me, only my departure could save the newspaper.
What the hell has happened to my friend ——’s brains, and heart, that she can put her name to a screed that implies he is a wicked bigot?
OK, there are other places to buy wine but they are not the same.
The Zombie PM
The doomed premiership of Theresa May