What men don't want, in fact what anyone who's any sort of thrill-seeking, intelligent adult doesn't want, is some crushing bore describing their emotions in real time every waking hour.

Being a child is horrible. It is slightly better than being a tree or a piece of heavy machinery but not half as good as being a domestic cat.

When did women whose looks are not their living start conducting themselves like the simpering inmates of an Ottoman empire seraglio?

When I moved to Brighton from London in 1995, I was struck by what I thought of as its townliness. A town, it seemed to me, was that perfect place to live, neither city nor country, both of which like to think they are light years apart but actually have a great deal in common.

Blakes Hotel in South Kensington was a particular favourite of mine during what I affectionately think of as my Restless Years.

As a child, I wanted only two things - to be left alone to read my library books, and to get away from my provincial hometown and go to London to be a writer. And I always knew that when I got there, I wanted to make loads of money.

One Christmas build-up tradition, however, has totally bypassed me - that of going up to town and doing a show.