Very Little Happens In My Books.

Sundays In France Have A Different Atmosphere To Other Days, With Fewer Phone Calls, No Postman, No Delivery Men And No One Banging On The Door.

Why Not Make A Daily Pleasure Out A Daily Necessity.

Nowadays, If You Have A Journey, Albeit A Simple One, You Consider Yourself Lucky If Nothing Happens.

The English Kill Their Meat Twice: Once When They Slaughter It And Once When They Cook It.

Next To The Defeated Politician, The Writer Is The Most Vocal And Inventive Griper On Earth. He Sees Hardship And Unfairness Wherever He Looks. His Agent Doesn’t Love Him (enough). The Blank Sheet Of Paper Is An Enemy. The Publisher Is A Cheapskate. The Critic Is A Philistine. The Public Doesn’t Understand Him. His Wife Doesn’t Understand Him. The Bartender Doesn’t Understand Him.