As a breastfeeding mother you are basically just meals on heels.

I am allergic to domestic goddesses. Men would prefer a woman with a dirty mind to a clean house.

Anyone living in Los Angeles who says they don't need a psychiatrist, needs a psychiatrist.

Home is where the heartache is.

. . . planning a brilliant menu and preparing it beautifully doesn't guarantee a recipe for success.

I speak as your native guide to the mysterious tribe called the English. Dress code is everything. You can be a card-carrying Nazi, you can pay gigolos to eat gnocchi out of your navel and you won't be pilloried -- as long as you never, ever wear linen with tweed.

Love is like a tide. When it's in, everything looks beautiful and inviting. Only when love recedes can you see the debris beneath the surface - the old bottles, the rusty prams, the sewage pipes, the bloated cats and dogs weighted down to drown. The man I had once loved so passionately I now saw as weak, gutted like a fish.