I, A Late Riser, Fantasise About Getting

She Frowned At Him. 'you Are In Love With Solitude.' 'is There A Better Cure For The World Than Solitude?

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

The Soldier Had Stamped My Passport Family In Heavy Black Capital Letters And I Checked It Now For Reassurance And Because I Liked How Fierce The Word Looked

I'd Like To Think Life Has Improved Since 1850, Despite The Long Hours We All Seem To Spend Slaving Over Hot Computers, But The Psychological Journeys Remain The Same - The Search For Love, Identity, A Meaningful Place In The World.

Fate Is Trying To Kill Me. I Miss My Dog. What's A Doctor Going To Say? You're Not Ill, You're Mad As A Muffin? They'll Either Lock Me Up Or Tell Me To Get A Grip And No One Will Believe The Truth Anyway.