The borough of Islington, on whose boundaries I live, has been a recognised area of London for centuries. It grew up as a collection of small manors around the Great North Road, and served the City of London with water.
A rather excited message on the voicemail from John Moore, formerly of the Jesus and Mary Chain and Black Box Recorder, who tells me to call him urgently.
Peter Ackroyd, in his masterful biography of London, animadverts that the entire city is essentially a performance space, one in which the notorious actors fret and strut, while the London mob roils and moils through the stree
I come back to the Hovel after a frugal evening out to find Razors watching Junior Apprentice on the telly. He works punishing hours - nine till five-ish - and so he's entitled to watch any old garbage he wants.
Unless you dislike sport so much that you've been living under the sea in an attempt to avoid it, you'll be aware that the World Cup is imminent.
There is a hush outside the bar.
A car idles, a small child plays in a doorway as his mother talks quietly into her mobile, an elderly woman makes slow progress with a shopping basket.
All I can think about is Liz Jones, the Daily Mail columnist who feeds her 17 cats on cod (and, according to one report, organic Marks & Spencer prawns, but that can't be true).
I was recently in a rural part of Senegal, West Africa, when a rumour filtered through that the volcanic ash cloud had returned, and was threatening to shut down the UK's runways all over again.
The Woman I Love decides we should hold a joint party. It has been some time since I have done this; I think I have to go back pre-children, which means 1995 or so.
I'm writing this as the last election results come in, but it will be published in the aftermath of those results, so I'm in the perplexing position of not being able to talk about the outcome of the election, even though it i
It's that time of year when all sorts of significant birthdays gang up together: my mother's, my sons', the Woman I Love's, and, indeed, mine (all cards and cheques can be sent to me c/o The Guvnor, The Duke of Wellington, 94a
The other day I was walking with a brace of my children up the steep road that approaches Brighton Station from North Laine when I observed a long, dark, liquid rivulet flowing down the pavement, and then a young man, blind dr
I have a good friend who is the chairman of West Sussex County Council.
I see only one old woman on the Tuesday morning walk, the one that drives a mobility scooter. As my dog lets loose on the last of the daffodils,
My mother's birthday. We have lunch upstairs at the Duke; very nice.
An election might be taking place elsewhere in the country, but down here the big news is traffic wardens.
With this election being forced down our throats in an unprecedented number of ways - TV, Twitter, unusually open newspaper bias - we're finally seeing the truth about politicians.
It is always wise to approach with caution the subject of Mumsnet.
A message from Razors. "Don't bother coming back tonight," he writes. "The lights have gone out." But I have to go back, as I have nowhere else to go once the Duke has shut.
There is something about hen parties that repels me. I was at Girona Airport near Barcelona two weeks ago.
Worldwide, the cosmetics industry is booming. In Italy the industry is worth €9bn each year.
Now that I'm the wrong side of 30, my thoughts naturally turn to death on a regular basis.
Even people who know absolutely nothing about British politics of the past two decades still know that Peter Mandelson once mistakenly referred to mushy peas as guacamole in a Hartlepool fish-and-chip shop.
The other evening I saw Eddie Izzard, the celebrated Jack-and-Jill of all theatrical trades, complete 43 nearly consecutive marathon runs.
It has come to this: buying a copy of Men's Health magazine in order to do something about my belly. It really is getting horrible; when I saw it in
profile in the mirror, I actually screamed.
The younger students are much more hi-tech than we older ones. They move easily around PowerPoint and multicoloured computer presentations, and sit in lectures fiddling with their BlackBerries.