Us

by David Nicholls

It is, of course, an illusion to imagine that the crossing of arbitrary boundaries on a map should correspond to variations in mood and temperament. A field is a field and a tree is a tree, but nevertheless this could only be France, and the air on the train took on a different quality, or seemed to, as French passengers emanated the satisfaction of returning home, and the rest of us the excitement of being officially ‘abroad’. ‘Here we are then! France!’

The feeking of trVelling

There may well be a scientific paper to be written on why walking in an art gallery is so much more exhausting than, say, climbing Helvellyn. My guess is that it is something to do with the energy required to hold muscles in tension, combined with the mental exertion of wondering what to say. Whatever

The Stress of art galleries

‘I’ve just never really been that bothered about fiction,’ I said. She shook her head. ‘I’ve always wondered who those freaks are who don’t

People who dint read fiction

it was the wrong thing to do, because in a fight you side with the people you love. That’s just how it is.’

In a fight you side with the ones you love

‘The tourist’s paradox: how to find somewhere that’s free of people exactly like us.’ ‘Though of course, like every tourist, I think of myself as a traveller.’ We smiled

Tourists or travellers

across the square, mournful music in a minor key. Bach, I guessed. If I ever find a piece of music depressing beyond belief, I assume that it is Bach.

Bach depressing

Take, for instance, the fate of the middle-class, into which Albie and I were born and to which Connie now belongs, albeit with some protest. In book after book I read that the middle-class are doomed. Globalisation and technology have already cut a swathe through previously secure professions, and 3D printing technology will soon wipe out the last of the manufacturing industries.

Dystopia