I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I was lonely

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I was lonely. Not pitiably lonely, certainly, and the old thing about making your bed and lying in it certainly applied. But once my darling little Honey came along, I started asking myself what kind of a household she was being brought up in. Out r five-bedroomed Primrose Hill house was a sort of upmarket dossing place for Dominic's clients, friends and assorted hangers-on, even when Dom wasn't there (he still spent half his time in Paris): I'd come down with her for the early-morning feed, nightied and leaky-breasted, and find strangers lying across the brutal and frankly ugly furniture. I was too old for this, I kept telling myself, and besides had never had any kind of yearning for this rock'n' roll lifestyle: I wanted hardcore domestic, in the way that you always want the opposite of your own childhood. Something, it became clear, had to give, and since Dom was either unwilling or unable to abandon - well his life, it made sense to remove myself from it. We separated a year ago, when Honey was eight months old. I wasn't sorry: disliking Dominic's life was one thing, but I'd also begun to dislike him.
From the book 'Don't you want me?' by India Knight

An austrian woman

An Austrian woman, a tourist in London, got chatting to some youths aged fourteen (fourteen!) to seventeen, they seemed to her friendly and she went for a walk with them. Which was a bit naive of her, perhaps, but it was daylight, and she probably thought of them as children (she is thirty-two herself, it said) and being a foreigner she probably didn’t understand their conversation too well, or read the signs in their body language, tone of voice, facial expressions, etc., for they must have been nudging and winking at each other, exchanging glances, sniggers, sotto voce comments. They lead her to some deserted spot where they stripped her and rapped her , ‘repeatedly’ the newspaper report said, then flung her naked into a canal, though she pleaded with them not to, and told them she couldn’t swim – which probably saved her life, actually, because she could, and managed to drag herself out of the canal on the other side. I pictured her, sobbing and shivering, bruised and bleeding, streaked with mud and slime, staggering along the towpath until she found somebody to help her. What struck me was that she said she survived this ghastly ordeal by ?separating her mind from her body as much as she could? . I wonder what Ralph Messenger would make of that. It seems to me a good argument for dualism.
From the book ‘Thinks’, by David Lodge

The house begins to fill up.

The curtains on the long Georgian windows have not been drawn, and light streams out onto the drive and footpath. Approaching guests can see the throng inside, chatting and laughing and drinking and chewing animatedly but silently, like actors on television when the sound is turned down, The door has been left on the latch, so there is no longer any need to ring the bell, but Ralph hovers just inside the door to welcome his guests, and directed to hang their coats in the downstairs cloakroom, where some linger to examine the wall-paper with its pattern of illustrations reproduced from La Vie Parisienne, women are invited to spread their coats on the twin beds of the guest bedroom, which has an en-suite bathroom convenient for last-minute adjustments to hair and make-up. Divested of their outdoor attire, the guests provide themselves with red or white wine, beer or soft drinks from the bar-table, tended by Mark Messenger in an electric blue shirt and black Dockers, the pass into the large drawing room, where Simon and Hope wriggle through the crush bearing plates of canapés, daring back occasionally for replenishment to the kitchen, where Carrie is warming up the ciabatta and focaccia and organic whole meal rolls in the electric oven for supper, while chatting to some women friends who are enviously inspecting the new modular kitchen units and work surfaces imported from Germany and fitted just a few months ago.
From the book ‘Thinks’, by David Lodge