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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.
Ah, the irony! That I should be immolated by a bag advertising the very magazine that employs me!
The view from the window is of much nicer houses opposite – or would be if the glass weren’t, in winter, permanently dripping with condensation.
I had really begun to think a 57-year-old slob with no money, a barely in-control wine habit and a problematic relationship with HMRC would hardly constitute a Catch, but there it is.
Christmas involves a temporary reinsertion into the family home, and this year I'll have a four-legged friend sharing the sofa.
The Green Dragon! The years roll away with a crash, and suddenly it’s 1984 again, and I’m getting pickled.
As I try to cut back on household expenses, I consider seeking refuge in the Co-op, where there are no tubs of fancy mayonnaise to taunt me.
One of the unfortunate side-effects of the Covid-19 pandemic is we have seen, paradoxically, a lot more of the interiors of friends’ homes than before.
Only Friday and Saturday nights are usually lively in the city, but the night before lockdown the air is thrilling with sirens.
October has hit me with an array of misfortunes, yet with a happy development in my personal life, things are looking up.
During my evening jaunts, I revel in the crashing waves at my feet and the inscrutable Morse code of the pulsing lights.