Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.
There is no “money” in Auroville, yet the Indian boys at the café were soon bringing me patisserie for bribes. In the form of money.
I was sort of fine, though every time I heard Greek tinkly music I would cry. Concussion is a strange thing.
At the end of the chanting each of us, with two fingers only, would raise up the dead girl.
He talked openly and knowledgeably until Peter Hitchens got on to him about cod.
“What are you going to do about drugs?” asked a man in the street.
One of the best Tory party conferences I went to was the one where they didn't let me in. But it wasn't enough to protect me from the nausea and despair of Iain Duncan Smith's company.
Suffice to say that it’s an uncomfortable place for someone like me. One feels like a masked anarchist simply being there as a woman.
It's great being a Lib Dem - you don't have to believe in anything. For a brief moment in 1996, I thought I'd found my people.
Middle aged men are complete emotional wrecks verging on hysteria a lot of the time.
Smoking for David? It could only be Hockney. Smoker extraordinaire, and not a bad painter either.
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