Well, there go the good times.
An email arrives from the chief executive of a magazine that went bust last year owing me £750. I might have mentioned this before. Well, it has been weighing upon me.
An email from one of the editors at the New Statesman.
At a swanky literary party - they still exist but they are few and far between - I am introduced to two charming girls who appear to be in their mid-teens.
I wake up on Sunday with a hangover so bad that I feel profoundly altered inside. There have been fundamental realignments of a sinister nature. I have a sudden, vivid image of my liver.
Willpower is probably starting to ebb from that New Year's resolution to cut down on alcohol. Why? Because you're fighting your natural inclinations: intoxication is a basic human drive.
Another year, another final pair of digits on the file marked "terror about financial matters". Not that there's anything that I can do about it, except work, and that for little more than peanuts.
The likes of Fassbinder, Godard, Pasolini, Tarkovsky, Wajda and Visconti were once seen as essential
A purple flyer pops through our letter box: "It's time to play," it says, which, to a sensitive ear, sounds like a catchphrase for a Hollywood serial killer.
I awake, not exactly refreshed but pleasantly woozy, after my first afternoon nap.
“Ageing women get axed from TV, so where’s your role model?”
Well, you can't stay in London every single day of your life, you'd go mad, and so I accept an invitation to go to Perthshire with H -- . Not that
Why foodies are getting excited about foraging
Is clothes browsing inside refurbished shipping containers in east London as hip (and non-corporate)
Leafing through the St Andrews Citizen the other day, I read a piece about plans to dig up a patch of wild ground - the local preservation trust described it as "an eyesore" - and make it into a "community garden".
Sometimes I wonder whether my horizons are shrinking too much.
The NS Interview: Fergus Henderson, chef at St John
My column from the latest <em>New Statesman</em> magazine.
What might it be like to wander around without anxiously looking at a screen every ten seconds? I wo
I emerge from five days without alcohol with a glossy coat, shining eyes and a tail thumping the floor with excitement and good, rude health.
Can inspirational LGBT figures help the victims of homophobic bullying?
I have in my hand a piece of paper: a prescription for a five-day course of Metronidazole, a heavy-duty antibiotic recommended for the treatment of (among other ailments) gingivitis, or inflammation of the gums.
In troubled times there is nothing women love better, so the age-old story goes, than a little retail therapy.
Disasters are always studied in retrospect. We will not have an experimental science of the subject any time soon.
From using euphemisms such as “collateral damage” to faking orgasms, we practise deception all the t
Power comes at a cost.
Last week's plea for cash results in a flood of polite refusals from readers, but once again my great friend Toby steps up to the plate and the last few days of September pass without my having to sit outside Baker Street Stat
All-male panel show line-ups are making me lose my sense of humour.
Leaked goverment document coincides with Unicef report that claims UK is 'obsessed with consumerism'