You are talking to an infant that does not even exist yet, and you are saying stuff about washing its non-existent feet with your hair and being a prostitute wench. And, to be honest, it's making me uncomfortable.
“It’s as though he’s sitting on your face and you can’t breathe...I don’t rate him as a writer at all,” says the disgruntled Man Booker juror who dissented on Philip Roth's win.
Through existential self-pity, I resurrected my inflamed tonsils with Dickensian grandeur – and I imagined – or, I should say, tried to imagine – how happy I'd have been to be born (and, soon enough, died) a Briton.