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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.
The thought that in a few days I will be back in the land of WH Smith instead of PJ Clarke’s makes me feel as though all the air had been let out of me.
Ah, New York, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
He prescribes amoxicillin, saying: “You must not drink while taking these.” “Orrock,” I say, which is my attempt to pronounce “bollocks”.
2019 began with me in Scotland and in love; I end it in Brighton and… well, how long does it take for the scar tissue to form over the heart again?
Something is very wrong with my tooth, and beneath it there are strange and painful things happening. It’s not toothache, but very painful indeed.
“Excuse me for asking,” says the man, “and this might sound like a weird question… but do you write for the New Statesman?”
I thought to myself, “I can get a column out of this.”
Wandering around London with a theatre programme marks you out as the kind of guy it’s OK to approach and start talking to.
For those who do not know him, Reacher is a tough-as-nails ex-military policeman (US Army) who keeps getting himself into scrapes despite wishing for a quiet life.
I was glad she was going to be my neighbour in Brighton and volunteered to help her with anything she needed.