I'd Rather Dig A Ditch

Do I Mind Being Called A Chick-lit Writer? Well, It's Not The Worst Thing That Could Happen.

I Went Grey At 12, My Eyesight Went At 17. I've Been A Crock From Very Early On.

I Am Prone To Despair. We Are All Born With A Particular Personality. I Get Afraid And Then I Don't Want To Leave The House.

Why Do We Have Such A Finite Capacity For Pleasure But An Infinite One For Pain?

God! I Hated This Business Of Being Grown-up. I Hated Having To Make Decisions Where I Didn't Know What Was Behind The Door. I Wanted A World Where Heroes And Villains Were Clearly Labeled. Where Ominous Music Comes On-screen So You Can't Possibly Mistake Him. Where Someone Asks You To Choose Between Playing With The Beautiful Princess In The Fragrant Garden And Being Eaten By The Hideous Monster In The Foul-smelling Pit. Not Exactly A Difficult One, Now Is It? Not Something That You Would Agonize Over, Or That Would Make You Lose A Night's Sleep?