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.
Thank you, I said, for insisting on having children, I was worried that I would be a terrible father. “You were!!!” she replied, “but they love you so that’s all good.”
I should point out that doing the laundry here is no joke. In fact, everything is no joke here. Using the bathroom especially.
When you get into the noisy coach, though, your expectations are different. You resign yourself to pandemonium.
Could such nectar be? I had asked myself. Until then my life in beer had been the wasteland of fizzy, bland keg stuff.
Hands up those of you who live halfway up Scotland and don’t have central heating? Well, that’s sorted the men from the boys.
At first I couldn’t believe my ears, but then said “of course”.
My gratitude to my hosts-cum-landlords knows no bounds.
It’s perhaps not an ideal routine, and one that may owe something to mild depression.
The life has gone from it. I imagine this must be what looking at the corpse of a lover is like
“Would you mind if I put you on hold, please? I need to talk to someone about this.” I get this a lot.