Sometimes I rant, in a comical way, about how the gods give with one hand and take with the other.

I am from the working class. I am now what I was then. No amount of balsamic vinegar and Prada handbags could make me forget what it was like to be poor.

The monarchy is finished. It was finished a while ago, but they're still making the corpses dance.

It's no surprise to me that intellectuals commit suicide, go mad or die from drink. We feel things more than other people. We know the world is rotten and that chins are ruined by spots.

8.45 a.m. My mother is in the hospital grounds smoking a cigarette. She is looking old and haggard. All the debauchery is catching up with her.

I have decided to be a poet. My father said there isn't a suitable career structure for poets and no pensions and other boring things, but I am quite decided.

I'm spectacularly disorganised. I wrote my latest book in seven different notebooks scattered throughout my house.