Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you ­finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So...

Here we go again. Always a few drinks, but sometimes even sober, we play the unhappiness game; endlessly round and round. Ding dong. Tighter and tighter. On and on. Push me pull you. Come here...

I am a trembling mess from hip to knee. There is a terrible heat, a looseness in my innards that makes me want to dig my fists between my thighs. It is a confusing feeling...

People do not change, they are merely revealed.

He had beautiful manners. Which, if you ask me, was mostly a question of saying nothing, to anyone, ever.

I didn’t say any of this to my sister. How I saw her being broken into mediocrity and motherhood; her body broken and then her mind – or did her mind go first, it’s sort...

Her past is behind her, her future is of little concern. She moves towards the grave, at her own speed.

A drinker does not exist. Whatever they say, it is just the drink talking