There’s comfort to an awful old dressing-gown a pretty peignoir is powerless to provide, and aging bra elastic, is, I suspect, as near to liberation as most women ever get.
A good listener is not someone with nothing to say. A good listener is a good talker with a sore throat.
I used to think the only use for sport was to give small boys something else to kick besides me.
A good marriage is like Dr Who’s Tardis: small and banal from the outside but spacious and interesting from within.
It beats me how Freud could say “What do women want?” as if we all must want the same thing.
Next and hardy annuals are the ones that never come up at all.
It has long been my boast that I can read or eat anything. But unfortunately, although I eat like a Hoover, I read so slowly that I am always on the smart book three years after everyone else has finished.
Spring makes everything look filthy.
A food is not necessarily essential just because your child hates it.
Any committee that is the slightest use is composed of people who are too busy to want to sit on it for a second longer than they have to.
As ridiculous to approve of property and let a few men have a grossly unfair share of it, as say you are all for marriage, and then let one man have all the wives.
I yield to no one in my admiration for the office as a social center, but it’s no place actually to get any work done.
No nice men are good at getting taxis.
The rule is not to talk about money with people who have much more or much less than you.
Perennials are the ones that grow like weeds, biennials are the ones that die this year instead of next and hardy annuals are the ones that never come up at all.
Being young is not having any money; being young is not minding not having any money.
Newish friends, if they get ghastly, can be weighed and found wanting, but you’d never do a thing like that to old ones; their terrible habits are just part of the universe.
Filing is concerned with the past; anything you actually need to see again has to do with the future.
And what would happen to my illusion that I am a force for order in the home if I wasn’t married to the only man north of the Tiber who is even untidier than I am?
I just wish, when neither of us has written to my husband’s mother, I didn’t feel so much worse about it than he does.