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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.
There’s not that much to do in Faversham, except browse the charity shops and go to the pub.
A cry went out: who will look after Diogenes the budgerigar? And a small voice piped up: “I’ll do it.” To my astonishment, and possibly everyone else’s, that voice was mine.
Perhaps I am becoming a breatharian, whose adherents claim to be able to survive for years without eating, subsisting only on prana, the life force of the universe.
When I was young “unisex” hairdressers meant “for women, and male children who have not yet achieved independence from their mothers”.
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.