Jeremy Clarke

Jeremy Clarke writes the The Spectator Low Life column.

Low Life

The joy of ironing

If my internal critic gets too negative or noisy, I steam-flatten the commentary line by line

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

The beauty of French nurses

Whereas the older nurse was effortlessly capable of subjectivity, objectivity, sympathy and imagination, the younger woman was limited to the first category only

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

If all else fails, there’s always basket weaving

My struggles with the blues harmonica

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My reintroduction to the human race

Time and again in France I have found that the greater the offense the more easily one is forgiven

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

Mon dieu! Our French residency permits have arrived

Between Christmas and New Year I spent five minutes on the form and sent the email

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My French lessons with Lord Nelson

Wearing two masks struck me as being as absurd as wearing two hats and I laughed

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My best Duke of Edinburgh salute for my oncologist

I have a new cancer but the doctor is ecstatic that we have found it so soon. He is brisk and unsentimental and I like him

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

The tyranny of French bureaucracy

Applying for a bank account is like trying for a permit to open a Christian bookshop in North Korea

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My thrilling rendezvous with the sausage lady

The rendezvous with the sausage lady was, as before, the car park of a line of motorway toll booths

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My €25 COVID shot surprise

I felt like the bloke in that blistering hymn whose chains fell off, whose heart was free, who rose, went forth and followed Thee

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

In praise of nuns

When the nuns begin to sing, their soaring, piercing voices make you look for a microphone

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

What French women want

For sheer gale-force-10 sexual power, I must mention Christine, a hardworking local waitress in her early thirties

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

My message to the log police

The woodman fastened his nose on my Barbour and inhaled fanatically. ‘Barbour,’ he said. ‘Oh-la-la-la-la’

By Jeremy Clarke

Low Life

French tag sales are good for my mental health

It is refreshing and enlivening to be among the poor for a change

By Jeremy Clarke

Home

The magic of Anthony Powell

As the radioactive liquid flowed into my veins, I found my page and was transported to a literary luncheon in 1969

By Jeremy Clarke

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