I Hate Menus, I Hate Choosing Food.

Boxing Is Fascinating. It's Good For The Soul To Be Made To Feel Clumsy. I Swank Around During The Week Thinking I'm A Big Cheese, But You Don't Feel Like That When You're In The Ring With A Chap Who Knows What He's Doing. It's Ritual Humiliation. I'm Going To Be Slugged About And Probably Killed, But I Love It And Have To Do Something To Keep Fit.

They, All Of Them, Work Incredibly Hard To Make Me Seem Clever And Heroic, Neither Of Which I Am.

I'm Finding It Increasingly Difficult To Simply Walk Down The Street. In New York, I Dashed In To Buy A Big Pair Of Sunglasses To Conceal Myself, But The Guy Behind The Counter Shouted 'hey! It's Dr. House.'

Death And Disaster Are At Our Shoulders Every Second Of Our Lives, Trying To Get At Us. Missing, A Lot Of The Time. A Lot Of Miles On The Motorway Without A Front Wheel Blow-out. A Lot Of Viruses That Slither Through Our Bodies Without Snagging. A Lot Of Pianos That Fall A Minute After We've Passed. Or A Month, It Makes No Difference. So Unless We're Going To Get Down On Our Knees And Give Thanks Every Time Disaster Misses, It Makes No Sense To Moan When It Strikes.

Humility Was Considered A Great Virtue In My Family Household. No Show Of Complacency Or Self-satisfaction Was Ever Tolerated. Patting Yourself On The Back Was Definitely Not Encouraged, And Pleasure Or Pride Would Be Punishable By Death.