Alas, it looks like those unsubstantiated rumours about me are about to come true after all this time.

Every love song I write is for Linda.

I was impossible. I don't know how anyone could have lived with me. For the first time in my life, I was on the scrap heap, an unemployed worker.

To this day, if I ever meet grownups who play ukulele, I love 'em.

The Pound is sinking, the Peso's failing, the Lira's reeling, and feeling quite appalling.

People think once you get famous and rich you move out of the public sphere and you have nothing left to write about. I've heard that - Bruce Springsteen was this real street boy, now he's got this big house. How does that compute? If you don't look at the material side of someone's life, if you look at more the emotional side, there's always a wealth of stuff to write about.

One may not eat what has a face.