When I'm On A Break From Writing,

Philosophy Wasn't About Facts, It Was About Ideas. My First Essay Title Was Something Like: 'how Can You Know What Other People Are Thinking?' I Thought, 'wow, What An Amazing Thing.' I Really Thought Deeply For The First Time.

I'm Never Going To Believe A Poirot Mystery Again. Never. All Those Witnesses Going, "yes, I Remember It Was 3:06 P.m. Exactly, Because I Glanced At The Clock As I Reached For The Sugar Tongs, And Lady Favisham Was Quite Clearly Sitting On The Right-hand Side Of The Fireplace." Bollocks. They Have No Idea Where Lady Favisham Was, They Just Don't Want To Admit It In Front Of Poirot. I'm Amazed He Gets Anywhere.

... What Would Poirot Do? Poirot Wouldn't Flap Around In A Panic. He'd Stay Calm And Use His Little Grey Cells And Recall Some Tiny, Vital Detail Which Would Be The Clue To Everything.

I Chose To Publish The First 'shopaholic' Book Under A Pseudonym Because I Wanted It To Be Judged On Its Own Merits.

Great. Just Great. One Glimpse Of His Body And I Have A Full-blown Crush. I Honestly Thought I Was A Bit Deeper Than That.