For Many Weeks After [my Wife] Died,

Sometimes I Feel That I Am Destined Always To Be Offstage Whenever The Main Action Occurs. That God Has Made Me The Victim Of Some Cosmic Practical Joke, By Assigning Me Little More Than A Walk-on Part In My Own Life. Or Sometimes I Feel That My Role Is Simply To Be A Spectator To Other People's Stories, And Always To Wander Away At The Most Important Moment, Drifiting Into The Kitchen To Make A Cup Of Tea Just As The Denouement Unfolds.

But I Have Always - Ever Since The Accidental Woman - Written Novels About Individuals Attempting To Make Choices In The Context Of Situations Over Which They Have No Control.

Contemporary Britain Seems An Endlessly Fascinating Place To Me - But If I Knew A Little Bit More About Other Places, And Other Times, Maybe It Wouldn't.

I Was Mainly In A State Of Nervousness While I Wrote It - Nervousness That It Was Far Bigger And More Complicated Than Anything Id Attempted Before, And That Maybe My Talent Just Wasnt Up To It And The Book Would Have To Be Abandoned, Or Would Turn Out Not To Work At All When It Was Finished.

We Say, 'shall We Meet For A Drink?', As Though Drinking Were The Main End Of The Appointment, And The Matter Of Company Only Incidental, We Are So Shy About Admitting Our Need For One Another.[...]we Say, 'would You Like To Come For Some Coffee?', As Though It Were Less Frightening To Acknowledge That We Are Heavily Dependent On Mildly Stimulating Drinks, Than To Acknowledge That We Are At All Dependent On The Companionship Of Other People.