Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.
I was to be evicted for being illegally in accommodation for homeless people. They, Camden Council, would then have to rehouse me, as I had a small child.
“Weren’t you meant to see Blair this morning?” “Um, yeah. I didn’t really feel like it.”
Was I projecting my own disturbance on to him? If so, it felt like a void that I could not bear.
My feet were burnt from standing in very high heels and everything deteriorated quite quickly.
The left has a strange relationship with its workers. Love, not money, counts.
You know when kids say “It’s so unfair”? Well. They’re right.
Our casual affair became more serious when we went to meetings in a back room of a pub on Holloway Road.
Never trust a hippie.
The ex-cop talked a lot of Zen stuff about waiting for the perfect moment, the lining up of the cross hairs. Letting the gun tell you when to pull the trigger. Aim for the head. Or heart. What a rush.