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.
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.
One item, included as if by way of whimsical afterthought, amuses me: a box of breakfast cereal.
The Office of National Statistics says 50 to 54 year olds are the most miserable people in the country. But they've not seen the new Wonderpass.
I thought I’d give her tidying theories a go, but when I held up the empty snack bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.