At Eighty Things Do Not Occur; They

Here I Sit, Alone At 60, Bald And Fat And Full Of Sin Cold The Seat, And Loud The Cistern As I Read The (harpic) (lysol) Tin

If You Find Yourself Born In Barnsley And Then Set Your Sights On Being Virginia Woolf It Is Not Going To Be Roses All The Way.

Mark My Words, When A Society Has To Resort To The Lavatory For Its Humour, The Writing Is On The Wall.

Why Is It Always The "intelligent" People Who Are Socialists?

Philip Larkin Used To Cheer Himself Up By Looking In The Mirror And Saying The Line From Rebecca, 'i Am Mrs De Winter Now!