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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.
As my impending homelessness looms, I remain at the mercy of estate agents and homeowners.
Misery is learning that, in 1930, I could have earned the equivalent of $2,130 for one lousy review.
Once you get to Archway, two stops on the Tube from East Finchley, London gets a little too hot for me.
My eviction is a bomb with a clearly indicated timer on it, ticking down to 1 October. Now that's a crisis.
I am building not so much castles in the air as one-bedroom flats.
I resisted the salt and pepper grinders and the proper chef's knife. But surely, I thought, a dustpan and brush won't jinx things?
I wonder what I could do with the price of a Pomeranian – or a bulldog going for £4,500.
The problem is that, when I get on the Tube, the proportion of people who know how masks work seems to be about 50 per cent.
I wonder if, on Monday, the doctor will tell me I am going on an Awfully Big Adventure, or that I am turning into a fly or something.
It’s there, all over my head. I can feel it around and above my ears, like seaweed. It is both alien to me and intimate. At times I almost even like it.