I’m writing a memoir. It’s a pack of lies.
You’re not really alone when you are writing and anyway there has always been a sense of someone else.
I now realise that there are only two kinds of people in the world. People who are bereaved and those who are yet to be bereaved.
I don’t enjoy my own company. I always feel there’s somebody missing.
I thought when I was this age, I’d have nothing but time. But I find you’re running around like a blue-arsed fly.