[he] Didn’t Like To Think Of Himself

[he] Didn’t Like To Think Of Himself As Vain, But There Were Definitely Times When He Wished There Was Someone On Hand To Take His Photograph.

She Drinks Pints Of Coffee And Writes Little Observations And Ideas For Stories With Her Best Fountain Pen On The Linen-white Pages Of Expensive Notebooks. Sometimes, When It's Going Badly, She Wonders If What She Believes To Be A Love Of The Written Word Is Really Just A Fetish For Stationery.

I Read A Lot Of F. Scott Fitzgerald. I Love 'tender Is The Night,' And Its Atmosphere Of Doomed Romance. He Was One Of The Greatest Prose Stylists, With A Wonderfully Clear But Lyrical Quality.

For His Thirtieth Birthday He Had Filled A Whole Night-club Off Regent Street; People Had Been Queuing On The Pavement To Get In. The Sim Card Of His Mobile Phone In His Pocket Was Overflowing With Telephone Numbers Of All The Hundreds Of People He Had Met In The Last Ten Years, And Yet The Only Person He Had Ever Wanted To Talk To In All That Time Was Standing Now In The Very Next Room.

You're Gorgeous, You Old Hag, And If I Could Give You Just One Gift Ever For The Rest Of Your Life It Would Be This. Confidence. It Would Be The Gift Of Confidence. Either That Or A Scented Candle