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.
The beauty industry steals women’s self-esteem and convinces us to spend unwisely in pursuit of phys
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.
We're with the cleaners on the 5am shift, finishing up the first cup of tea of the day in the half-light of the large Victorian pub. "Better start, then," declares Maureen, unofficial leader of the three-woman team.
Acknowledging that wickedness exists doesn’t mean you have to believe in the existence of Satan. And
The worldwide scandal of Catholic paedophile priests threatens to become the gravest crisis in the modern history of the Church. As Pope Benedict XVI prepares to visit Britain to beatify Cardinal Newman, we look at the life of this humane Catholic convert
At King's Cross, starving and honour-bound never to buy anything from Burger King ever again (see my column from a few weeks ago), I go to the West Country Pasty Company stall and buy a sausage roll.
The spate of recent news stories about the dangers of social networking has only served to remind me how dizzyingly quickly communications have moved on since I was young - a chilling four-word phrase which, having turned 30,
There's no escape from media obsession for modern political wives. But it seems they're only too wil
I ask Razors if he still calls it the Post Office Tower. He looks almost hurt. "Of course I do."
I have always considered health clubs with deep suspicion. It comes, I think, from living in London for most of my life.
The wind whips at the figures on the hillside. The young offenders have screwed-up faces and shaved heads. One or two appear angry, but most are merely cold and probably not very bright.
Here's a statement you don't often come across when British teenage pregnancies are the subject of conversation: "Numbers of teenage mothers are relatively small." Tabloid horror headlines might suggest otherwise, but as Jane