A N Wilson

Enemy of Promise

The other day I bumped into a friend who had not seen me for some time. I asked about his life, and he then asked about mine. Was I still enjoying being Literary Editor of the Spectator? I told him that I had not held this post for some months and that I now lived in retirement in the provinces. A pained expression passed over his face. ‘But don’t you miss Literary London?’ he asked.

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