Diary – 1 January 2005

Heathrow. Crawling back into the country like a whipped cur after another disastrous American book tour. Difficult to pick the most abject humiliation. Dallas, where just one person showed up for the event? Boston, where it was twice that number, but one of them was a homeless bum taking advantage of all the empty seats? Never again. I give up on America. I am tired of book events in Midwestern hell-holes that resemble the Mary Celeste. I am tired of flying everywhere by ‘coach’. I am tired of fat rednecks telling me to take my shoes off at the airport. America — I quit.

Hampstead. The unpacking is almost done. After ten years in Holloway, just being here lifts the spirits. This is the best place in London for children and dogs. They run wild on the Heath while Arsenal players argue about existentialism in Café Rouge. Eighties pop stars are everywhere.