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.
Thoughts on the Bachelor Condition: #2 in an occasional series. (Or number 300-odd, if we assume this whole column is an ongoing meditation.)
“I hate it,” I said. “I hate it more than I can say.”
Down and out.
What shall I do with the money? At the moment, I am typing this on a laptop that is perched on a chair by the side of my bed.
The idea of my child getting behind the wheel of several tonnes of rusting Mercedes is one that I cannot begin to grasp, like trying to imagine what is beyond the universe.
Even thinking about a backscratcher makes the back cry out for one.
My only consolation, as I now wonder what on earth I am going to put my Marmite on besides my finger, is that Mousie will have burst like a balloon with the amount he has eaten.
If that particular envelope-opening scene had been filmed in the 1930s or 1940s, it would have been accompanied by a shaft of sunlight and the sound of a heavenly choir.
I have now got the stage where I am convinced that if I open the latest HMRC-stamped envelope, a Balrog will jump out.
This programme and I have a history.
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