Alan
From Alan Bennett's end-of-year thing in the London Review of Books.
'"I wouldn't want to be as bald as that. You'd never know where to stop washing your face."
"It's one of those churches in the City like My Aunty by the Wardrobe."
'"Here we are. Fat Pig One and Fat Pig Two." Said by my mother when she and my father were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire.'
'20 July. Although the East Coast rail franchise has now passed from GNER to National Express eccentricity happily persists: the trolley attendant this afternoon warns against too sudden opening of the sparkling water lest it be a bit "Vesuvial."'
My Aunty by my Wardrobe had me laughing for days in a small damp colourful house in the kasbah in Tangier, where I have just had something called "a holiday." Much walking through souks, medinas, kasbahs and long deserted Atlantic beaches. Much eating of cous-cous and much undigesting and sickening caused by some local oil or rancid butter. Much sleep, including a 36 hour stretch that took in New Year's Eve, for which I got out of bed for 11 minutes, staggered to the rooftop terrace, drank flat Spanish Cava with my companions and looked out over the city, which proclaimed itself, with the total silence, completely indifferent to New Year celebrations, probably because they'd had their own Islamic one two days earlier, and greeted that with equally muted fanfare. Happy new year to one and to t'other an'all.
'"I wouldn't want to be as bald as that. You'd never know where to stop washing your face."
"It's one of those churches in the City like My Aunty by the Wardrobe."
'"Here we are. Fat Pig One and Fat Pig Two." Said by my mother when she and my father were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire.'
'20 July. Although the East Coast rail franchise has now passed from GNER to National Express eccentricity happily persists: the trolley attendant this afternoon warns against too sudden opening of the sparkling water lest it be a bit "Vesuvial."'
My Aunty by my Wardrobe had me laughing for days in a small damp colourful house in the kasbah in Tangier, where I have just had something called "a holiday." Much walking through souks, medinas, kasbahs and long deserted Atlantic beaches. Much eating of cous-cous and much undigesting and sickening caused by some local oil or rancid butter. Much sleep, including a 36 hour stretch that took in New Year's Eve, for which I got out of bed for 11 minutes, staggered to the rooftop terrace, drank flat Spanish Cava with my companions and looked out over the city, which proclaimed itself, with the total silence, completely indifferent to New Year celebrations, probably because they'd had their own Islamic one two days earlier, and greeted that with equally muted fanfare. Happy new year to one and to t'other an'all.