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.
I googled “repulsive Scottish public figures” and absolutely nothing came up of any use.
The similarities between our situations are obvious. Kutkh has been given an airy cage, with branches and a water bowl; a simulacrum of home, not the real thing.
“You sound awfully ill,” I say solicitously, doing my best to provide a hint. I give up, and decide to drink myself to death.
“Thank God Mum isn’t here to see this,” says the boy.
I get on with my children so well perhaps because they are grateful to see exactly what they should not do in order to have a rich and happy life.
I now see the poignancy of the Doctor’s situation: rootless, ever on the move, trying to do whatever good he can. Or, now, she.
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.