“Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion.”

“Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion.”

“Possibly I've become less funny as I've been happier.”

“Bloody Christmas, here again, let us raise a loving cup, peace on earth, goodwill to men, and make them do the washing up.”

“Another Christmas PoemBlood Christmas, here again.Let us raise a loving cup:Peace on earth, goodwill to men,And make them do the washing-up.”

“It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me,Up there, two thousand feet aboveA New York street. We’re safe and free,A little while, to live and love,Imagining what might have been –The phone-call from the blazing tower,A last farewell on the machine,While someone sleeps another hour,Or worse, perhaps, to say goodbyeAnd listen to each other’s pain,Send helpless love across the sky,Knowing we’ll never meet again,Or jump together, hand in hand,To certain death. Spared all of thisFor now, how well I understandThat love is all, is all there is.”

“Bloody men are like bloody buses —You wait for about a yearAnd as soon as one approaches your stopTwo or three others appear.You look at them flashing their indicators,Offering you a ride.You’re trying to read the destinations,You haven’t much time to decide.If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gazeWhile the cars and the taxis and lorries go byAnd the minutes, the hours, the days.”

“The day he moved out was terrible – That evening she went through hell.His absence wasn’t a problemBut the corkscrew had gone as well.”

“Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion.”

“On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.I wipe them away with a black woolly gloveAnd try not to notice I've fallen in loveOn Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.But the juke-box inside me is playing a songThat says something different. And when was it wrong?On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hairI am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.the head does its best but the heart is the boss-I admit it before I am halfway across”