Why, then, are we so wedded to the romantic illusion of authors as poor, tortured, hungry souls, labouring in unheated garrets until the day they are discovered and rewarded with fairy[-]tale fortunes of Rowlingesque proportions?

Barney has always back-patted himself that he is without an equal on the dirt track.

I start my shift at three in the afternoon, and get to burn out at midnight.

To make Whitley Goose, an excellent old country recipe, I allow two large onions for each person […]