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.
Murmur murmur murmur, they go. Whisper whisper whisper. They are just five feet from me. I have to act.
I have to isolate which aspect of my behaviour it is that is causing me to fall so ill, so frequently. Surely it can have nothing to do with my wine consumption. That is crazy talk.
The BBC call me up for a comment on flat-sharing as an adult man, and I start brooding.
The bank is now closing for refurbishment. Whether it will be demolishing its secret garden, I do not know – but I know where my money would be if I were a betting man.
“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 Zombie PM