A column of ill-advised advice by Philip Marlowe, Private Eye “I don’t do happy endings, sweetheart — just truth with a hangover.” Letter #1: Dear Marlowe, I woke up one morning and discovered I’d turned into a giant insect. My family won’t look at me, my boss wants a note from a doctor and I can’t get out of bed without tipping over like a drunken beetle on a waxed floor. Any tips on coping with sudden, grotesque alienation? Signed, Bugged in the Bedroom Dear Bugged, Sounds

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When I first retired, I imagined that I would spend my days cultivating a lifestyle that suggested linen trousers, leisurely mid-morning espressos and the sort of effortless multilingualism that comes from having lived abroad, though I hadn’t and never intended to. I pictured myself leafing through novels in translation, adopting a plant-based diet, possibly even learning to cook without using the microwave. Instead, I have developed a meaningful emotional connection with our