I rode the 381 home and sat in the priority seats just behind the box of free tabloids.
Like many of John Le Carré’s women, she has a creepy energy that I can only describe as “sex-mother.”
Many of the women in his books seem unable to decide whether they want to sleep with every man they see or be their actual biological mother.
We made a list of all the things we didn’t know: when was the Bronze Age, and what’s steel made of, anyway?
There’s a palpable sense that Britain was at its best back when people were living on rations, the era that had just come to a close when Coronation Street first went on the air.
I Sharpie-scribbled my way through a violently lime green pad of Post-It notes.
Commuting to historical archives is the ultimate exercise in urban loneliness.
Emily’s red dress overlaying my jeans and T-shirt, my short neck where her slender one would be.
I tell my students that they are lucky to be living through a period of such exciting democratic activity.
As though wearing colour was the mistake instead of just being a woman.