He's laughing me into a stupor, she thought. I could heckle, I suppose, I could throw a bread roll at him, but he's eaten them all. She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show? Eat a meal, go to bed, fall in love with me and I promise you years and years of top notch material like this?

Happyish. Well, happyish isn't so bad.' 'It's the most we can hope for.

you feel a little bit lost right now about what to do with your life, a bit rudderless and oarless and aimless but that's okay that's alright because we're all meant to be like that at twenty-four.

He could feel her laughter against his chest, and at that moment he thought that there was no better feeling than making Emma Morley laugh.

This isn't a letter, it's a gift.

The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell.

I've only ever been recognised in the street once. In Sweden, strangely.