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.
“Have you played GeoGuessr, Dad?” the eldest asked.
You can’t have a Wonderpass with a big lake of piss in the middle of it and half the lights not working.
You do not see men my age serving people any more - unless it is in the haberdashery department of John Lewis.
Ask not for whom the sinkhole gapes: it gapes for thee.
The fridge has become, literally, unhinged. What now?
The mirror is still there, though, into which I would, as Nigel Molesworth put it, gaze at my strange unatural (sic) beauty, and ask what purpose it served.
The Girl has outmanoeuvred me yet again, but then again I told my children that my main job as a father was to make sure that they turned out smarter than me.
How to stop young people smoking – put a bloody great curtain in front of the fags!
One imagines that the abilities of 47,000-plus employees sitting around on beanbags and drinking really good coffee could have been put to better use.
Thoughts on the Bachelor Condition: #2 in an occasional series. (Or number 300-odd, if we assume this whole column is an ongoing meditation.)
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