The money I pay for my cultural experiences came willingly from my own pocket - they were not the result of bread being removed from the mouths of the poor so that Miss Thing here could mince off to the circus smelling of roses.

Being a monarchist - saying that one small group is born more worthy of respect than another - is just as warped and strange as being a racist.

Rachel Cusk's books are like pop-up volumes for grown-ups, the prose springing out of the page to bop you neatly between the eyes with its insights.

Gluttony and idleness are two of life's great joys, but they are not honourable.

'Stress' was the catch-all every pamper-pedlar I spoke to used to explain why healthy women feel the need to be regularly patted, petted and preened into a state of babyish beatification.

Only those who haven't got the wit to speak for themselves would ever want their clothes to do it for them.

Whenever I am sent a new book on the lively arts, the first thing I do is look for myself in the index.