Just when my biological clock started ticking, I found out it was going to be virtually impossible. And it was very hard.
Just when my biological clock started ticking, I found out it was going to be virtually impossible. And it was very hard.
I don't understand people who travel purely gastronomically, who book a Michelin-starred restaurant three months in advance and suddenly find themselves in Copenhagen or Barcelona with a zeitgeist plate of snail porridge.
I'd like to live permanently in October 1988, when I started college. I had no responsibility and the energy to do whatever I wanted. My optimism wasn't dented by experience or low self-esteem.
I usually like 'The Guardian' and its journalistic bent, but sometimes 'The Independent.' And if I'm being totally honest, some weekends I'll have a 'News of the Screws' or a 'Sunday Spurt.' You need high and lowbrow.
Let's face it: I'm not a looker. I'm a scruff. But I have embraced my scruffiness. We're happy together.
Writing a memoir begins a process that doesn't necessarily end with publication. You begin to think about family life and stories and relationships, and those are ongoing.
I wanted to set 'Heading Out' in a real world, a concept I originally struggled with, as I don't have a proper job.
You build up coming out to this horrible moment. It's so stressful, there's so much adrenaline, and there's so much primal fear - even though I know my parents to be good people - that they're going to reject you.
I have a voice inside. A voice that I am forever trying to silence. A voice that calls me in when I want to be out, playing. A voice that is always sad. That is always terrified. That always wants to sit in the darkened room, away from noise and movement and colour - away from any experience that could prove to be challenging.