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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.
Round numbers scare me, especially since I was ejected from the Hovel ten years to the day from when I moved in – and if this column goes, then I really am screwed.
I may be vague about my children’s birthdays but I am not vague in my affection for them.
The patterns of history can feel, at times, like the movement of the sea: you can feel it in your balls.
Ben runs up the 16 floors to his flat every time, instead of taking the lift. Even the thought of it makes me gasp for breath.
By some miracle I picked a pair that fit the window space neatly, and have spent weeks admiring the way they work so well. Look, they close! And look! They open! Hours can be spent doing this.
I started wondering whether there might be some retribution in store for this man. I settled on the mental image of him falling down an open manhole.
A bunch of pointy-heads decide that what this world needs more of is pubs showing football matches on nine-foot screens and bouncers outside the door
It’s been an interesting week.
It’s doable, living out of a suitcase. But it is psychically exhausting. I do not have the book collection, the tasteful knick-knacks, the carefully ordered disarray with which I can show off my character.
On the way back from Manchester, before hitting the motorway, we found an impressively decrepit petrol station and topped up the car