Wanda Watt
Wanda Watt, an artful intellectual who lives with her bestie Noah Little, is a free-range ruminator who can stomach only so much. Watt’s real identity is known to the editor.
Articles By This Author
Groups, nations and consternations
The professor, delicious monster that he is, has popped in for tea. I am surprised. The last time he came, I batted my eyes at
Getting into a frothy over rugby
“Well, how did you enjoy the rugby?” Noah asks. Noah and I are standing our Irish friends to breakfast at a local restaurant. This is
Of angels and devils, and souls in between
“Sad case, very sad.” Noah’s gaze is upon me. Normally I like being the centre of attention, and this is so even when someone as
Boarding the trans to nowhere
Noah and I are together in our sitting room. We are having a drink before supper. If this sounds mundane, it is because it is.
Race bind
The Professor is with us for dinner. Unsurprisingly, I am all aquiver. Why I feel both weak at the knees and hollow in my tum when he arrives is beyond me. Is it his beautiful figure, elegant gait, his silky voice, his luminous intelligence, his gracious manner or, perhaps, last but all best, the soulful eyes which sparkle in their sockets in his finely chiselled, ripe-plum black visage?
Multiplying division: why the black adder is a bad subtractor
“Behold the Midnight Rambler. What have you been doing so late into the night, my dear?” ‘My dear’, when uttered with such asperity, is not to be taken literally. Indeed, it means the very opposite. Much in the spirit of “you’ll forgive me for saying …”, “with the greatest of respect …” or “you are clever enough to know …”.
Jason Arday, Rip van Winkle ripped off in turn, R.I.P
No solitary splendour, this. I write in a solitary stupor. It is Friday night, late, and Jason Arday is, as our black friends say, late. Or as some whites say, he has passed.
A sojourn among the journos
This is the second time in successive weeks that I have considered the life and times of journalists. I worry.
Zannyphobia
Noah and I are exchanging views. I shall summarize them here, but before I do so I must set the scene. We are at the dinner table, and Noah is sitting opposite me. The arrangement is one I favour.
Speaking of which
Noah, hanging his head, has a hangdog look. The dog he is looking for has hair that, he hopes, will be an antidote for the booze he drank last night. A hang of a lot of it, it was.