Q:
Three interesting things about me. Well, I’m twenty-nine years old, I’m phobic about buttons. Oh yes, and I’m dying.
...
Oh well, you live and learn.
Except in my case only one of those is true. (c)
Q:
We'd met at university, where he was studying medicine and I was studying social awkwardness and a catastrophic inability to cope with deadlines. (c)Q:
What, turn down the chance to talk about myself for fifty-five minutes a week? I’d have to be nuts. (c)
Q:
I nodded calmly. As though strange men were forever following me into department stores off the street. (c)
Q:
Not that my family is particularly good at presents.
Last Christmas, my parents bought me six sessions with a therapist. (c)
Q:
‘It’s not that we think there’s something wrong with you,’ Mum said, scanning my face anxiously as I examined the voucher. ‘We just want you to be the best you can be.’
‘But what if this is my best me?’
My dad laughed then as if I’d made a joke. ‘Then God help us,’ (c)
Q:
What on earth was I thinking? … And if you have to ask, you’re probably too clear-headed, too normal, not lonely enough, to understand. … What I was after was an experience, a memory I could store in tissue paper and take out every now and then in years to come when no one was around. (с)
Q:
‘Why does she have to be so weird?’ they used to ask my parents as we were growing up, as if weirdness was an eccentric jacket I’d perversely chosen to wear. (c)
Q:
… their efficient, multi-tasking wives and their Renaissance children… (c)
Q:
I suppressed my qualms and shut out my mother’s voice in my head asking what I thought I was doing. (c)
Q:
I’d spent all year trapped inside myself with only me for company. I wanted a break. I wanted to be someone else for a bit, with someone else’s life.
You’re a long time dead, I told myself.
Funny, that thought isn’t so comforting now. (c)
Q:
Everyone has secrets, don’t they? (c)
Q:
If you are what you eat, the people of Wood Green are giant walking fried chicken wings. (c)
Q:
The thing is, you never really know, when it comes to other people, what secret rooms they keep… (c)
Q:
I don’t actually do sex. … I don’t like losing control. … ‘Don’t worry,’ he said again. ‘I get my pleasure in other ways.’…
‘Gosh,’ I said, using that word for the first time in my life. ‘I can’t imagine. Do you knit? Or make exact-scale models of famous landmarks out of matchsticks?’ … (c)
Q:
I tried to summon her up in my mind, fashioning her into a rope that I could wind around my thoughts. But she was too slippery. Sliding away through the gaps in my mind. (c)
Q:
Sometimes she talks like an American self-help manual. (c)
Q:
How many assumptions do we make each day based on a total travesty of truth? I wonder. (c)
Q:
Life didn’t always take you where you thought it would. (c)
Q:
the cold literally snatched the breath from my lungs, but I also felt an exhilaration I hadn’t felt for a long time. I looked at the sun reflecting gold and silver off the river, and the glittering Shard, soaring up into the sky. I watched the distant cars on the bridge, and noticed how every now and then one of them would explode like a fire cracker when a ray of sunlight bounced off its bonnet. It was all so beautiful. (c)
Q:
If I just find the right combination in my mind, surely I can unlock the door in time and space that’ll lead me back to the life I had before. (c)
Q:
Possibility. Unlikely. I crave certainty. As long as certainty is in my favour. (c)
Q:
Whoever worked life out got the design all wrong, it seems to her. (c)