14 NOVEMBER 1987, Page 59

Michael Holroyd

I EAT alone where I work alone. I have a special armchair that, with a little effort, tilts backwards so that my feet are on a level with my head. Beside this chair I place an old wooden tray with hunting scenes and red legs. Lying horizontally I can let my hand down to pick up delicacies I have laid out — shrimps, cheese, wine, chocolate biscuits — while staring, full of lofty thoughts, at the ceiling or watching telly.