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This was Westminster, and London Rules were in play, which – right below Never apologise, never explain – stated Never admit you made a mistake.
That’s the real art of politics, Ms Fleet. Knowing when the next fuck-up’s due. And arranging for a human sandbag to be standing in the way.’
Singer was a middle-aged man in whom youth could still be seen, mostly through his choice of footwear.
‘You’ll be loyal unto death, obviously, but supposing you wanted him to fall under a bus? Because if it helps, I’ve a set of bus timetables you can borrow.’
When the past meets the present the present always wins, but the victories are fleeting, mere technical knockouts. The present wins every battle, but the past always wins the war.
Nobody told you what a drag it was, getting older. Or at least, people did tell you, but you ignored them, because they were old.
Robin’s hand–eye coordination’s been shot to bits since Frau Blasen gave him the elbow. And I speak as one who’s stood next to him at a urinal.
‘I’m an open book,’ said Miles. ‘You know that.’ ‘But a lot of your pages have fallen out,’
how we act in the light of day is largely for other people’s benefit, but what we do in the secret hours reveals who we really are.
But life, she feels, is too fragile to waste in self-loathing, unless such disgust has been adequately earned.
because she wasn’t sure she wanted to see her face. Guilt was like wearing too much make-up: everyone knew you were masking something.
‘It’s a plan, not a fucking toaster,’ said Miles. ‘It doesn’t come with a guarantee.’
On the Kurfürstendamm she passed a bar, and was so grateful for the strength of mind that prevented her walking in and ordering a drink that she stopped at the next one to celebrate.
