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

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?

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

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