Maybe my identity's been stolen. Or maybe I was sleep-shopping!
I had no plans to be a writer. My teenaged bid for stardom was to be a pop star... which, ahem, didn't exactly work out.
I had gone to Oxford to read music. I had done music all my life, but when I got to college I didn't want to do it anymore.
But you can't stay with people because of guilt. Or because they can drive a speedboat.
I can't cook. I don't have the right brain for it, somehow. I can't walk into a room and tidy it up. I get distracted. I pick up one thing and I start looking at it. And my cooking is truly heinous.
I never did any training in journalism or in finance, so I really was in the deep end. I got very good at going to press conferences and nodding. I'd figure it out when I got back to the office. Charts and numbers. I've never been great with facts, ever, my whole life. For a journalist, that's not a very good trait.
I change my mind so much, I'm better going on my own. Shopping is a selfish activity anyway.
You won’t let me buy any clothes. Now you won’t let me buy a road map, either! I need to spend some money or I’m going to go crazy!
Oh, please. If she's going to use Mr. Darcy to prop up her arguments, I give up.
If you look good, you feel good!
To have someone who never makes a mistake, never finds her personal life in disarray, never worries about work-life balance? I think that would be unreal. What Im writing is real.
Everyone knows revenge is a dish best served when you've had enough time to build up enough vitriol and fury.
Your father always tries to see the good side of people; to find the excuse. But sometimes there isn't a good side. There isn't an excuse. (Mom - to Lara Lington)
When I'm on a break from writing, I'll log on to Amazon and eBay. The doorbell is constantly being rung by deliverymen.
My daily Nespresso coffee, an unexpected shaft of sunlight through the window on a winter's day, my bargain Missoni sunglasses (70 percent off!)
I'm never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going, "Yes, I remember it was 3:06 p.m. exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace." Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don't want to admit it in front of Poirot. I'm amazed he gets anywhere.
I had fun. That’s what I believe in. Fun, flings, the sizzle. It starts as a shiver, when you see a man for the first time. And then he meets your eye and the shiver runs down your back and becomes a sizzle in your stomach and you think 'I want to dance with that man.' You dance, you have a cocktail or two, you flirt.
If my writing comes to a halt, I head to the shops: I find them very inspirational. And if I get into real trouble with my plot, I go out for a pizza with my husband.
... what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn't flap around in a panic. He'd stay calm and use his little grey cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to everything.
If I worked at White Globe Consulting, I wouldn't be able to do my job. I would spend all day texting the other people in the office, asking them what was going on today and had they heard anything new and what did they think was going to happen. Hmm. Maybe it's a good thing I'm not in an office job.
But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what's important in life.
Obviously this is engagement ring city. Couples are wandering along and girls are pointing through the windows and the men are smiling but all look slightly sick whenever their girlfriends turn away.
I'm sitting at the dinner table, wearing my future mother-in-law's underwear. It's like some twisted dream that you wake up and thinkL Crikey Moses! Thank God that didn't really happen!
Why didn't I buy a new phone earlier? Why don't I always walk around with a spare phone? It should be the law, like having a spare tire.
He so did not sit down and have a proper talk with her. I know it. He probably sent her a brief text, saying, Over. Sam.
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