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.
Plus I need to get fit for a cricket match, and at the moment I look like an egg with sticks for legs and arms.
How else would I have met a Wolverhampton woman with a dry and ready wit and tattoos all over?
“The British shorthair is an intelligent cat,” says Pets4homes.co.uk, yet my brother claims his is no smarter than a rock.
In a month’s time, K— and I will be competing for sofas around the country.
Here is the clever bit: they always, for some reason that I cannot possibly fathom, choose a nice young woman to call me up, and be extra friendly.
It struck me, during the course of our team’s annual pre-season dinner, how much I like my team-mates.
All you need to know about cats is that they will tear your heart out, metaphorically if not literally, for a pouch of Whiskas Dreamies.
The Dutch city is not that pretty outside of the centre, and is punitively expensive everywhere.
The accent is… well, let’s just say it’s exotic, and contains the thrilling promise of adventure.
They weren’t exactly Doc Martens: they were vegan Doc Martens.