I glanced into a dark mirror world in which people (mostly men) wrote that I am vile and stupid and should kill myself

It can seem that everyone else is easily making friends and having fun in the early days. Some of them are pretending

Sometimes I want August to be over. It begins to feel like a waiting time, too much anticipation and not enough result

I’m not in favour of state surveillance, but more cameras on our roads would save lives

I am not advocating giving up as a general principle, in relation to books or anything else

Although I learned metric in school in 1980s Britain, the architecture of shame and ambition around body weight was expressed in stone

He asked me to write recipes for some of the food I’ve made all his life. I couldn’t do it

Some writers are wary of translations and adaptations - I’m just curious

These books are politically wrong, but they’re also well written

There is nothing more I can do to ‘be seen’, and nothing I can do about drivers who don’t look

Everything from cancer to hobbies is now described as ‘your journey’, but I prefer words that don’t make false promises

Nothing about floor-shaking music, other people’s sweat and alarming metal contraptions tempts me

I’m not insulted and if it makes others more comfortable to think that’s why I’m not drinking, it’s fine by me

It’s not clear to me on what moral basis I would refuse publication in Putin’s Russia while signing gratefully for Trump’s America

Am I supposed to take comfort or pleasure in the greater hardship of others? Or is it that there’s a suffering competition?