No one could describe the feelings brought on by the sight of a sink full of dirty dishes like Barbara Pym; I have dedicated a solid quarter of my post-Toast career attempting to do the same and failing (Is this why Philip Larkin was always so sad? I wonder).
This is the Barbara Pym piece I've been waiting for my entire life, I think.
So is Barbara Pym like if Nancy Mitford wasn't related to fascists and had to think about where meals come from?
Why isn’t blancmange a thing anymore?