There's comfort to an awful old dressing-gown a pretty peignoir is powerless to provide, and aging bra elastic, is, I suspect, as near to liberation as most women ever get.

And what would happen to my illusion that I am a force for order in the home if I wasn't married to the only man north of the Tiber who is even untidier than I am?

As anyone who has ever fallen foul of an airport, a conventional hospital or a bad restaurant knows, misery is made up of little things.

Any committee that is the slightest use is composed of people who are too busy to want to sit on it for a second longer than they have to.

There are some circles in America where it seems to be more socially acceptable to carry a hand-gun than a packet of cigarettes.

In my next life I want to be a pessimist. Then other people could spend all their time cheering me up.

It beats me how Freud could say "What do women want?" as if we all must want the same thing.