All the things I do instead of writing…
As ever, when anything changes in my life, I descend into introspection. For no particular reason, I start to find my gilded existence tragic, and turn into a navel-gazing drama queen, nervously necking champagne at a wedding and sloping off home in tears because they’re playing Oasis and I have just drunkenly stepped on my own... Continue Reading →
I'm quite disconcertingly comfortable with my own company. When I'm not at work (which is most of the time), I have all the head space I need - I can read the papers, construct bizarre diet plans I won't stick to, shout at the morons on breakfast TV, indulge in antisocial personal habits like picking... Continue Reading →
The other day, I went to see the best play I've seen in many years at The Royal Court, called Clybourne Park. The reviewers kept saying it was a very funny satire about race and property, and I certainly couldn't help laughing at the accurate portrayal of the ugly sides of human nature, although I... Continue Reading →
The resting writer 