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
That first autumnal chill arrived early this year: I felt it, with depressingly little surprise, in August.
Y'know, me don' see dat David Starkey much down 'ere on me manor, seen, tho' wevver it am because he be chi-chi man or foo-foo racist man me don't know.
What were they doing there? Apart from the questionable decision to spend up to £500 a night to stay in a straw hut strewn with a bit of rustic decor, why there? Why go on holiday so near to the Somali border?
At Motherwell Station, there is a reception committee awaiting me - or is it some sort of posse, with me in the Butch Cassidy role? One . . . two . . . three . . . no fewer than six ticket collectors bar my way. Golly!
So, there I am, strolling towards Marble Arch Station from the north, passing the swanky Indian restaurant on Old Quebec Street and thinking that, thanks to some extra work I've got lately, I might be able to pay off a couple
Every year since 1974, when I was 11, my father has bought me a copy of Wisden Cricketers' Almanack for my birthday.
I have always liked Pozzo's speech in Waiting for Godot when he says that the tears of the world are a constant quantity, and that for each person who begins to weep, another one stops.
"Ark!" We have a new resident at the Hovel: a fledgling seagull, who presumably fell out of the nest on the roof.
Here's a dinner for two with 1970s sophistication but modern-day products and prices: to start, a couple of prawn cocktails at £2.09 each; to follow, a brace of 8oz fillet steaks weighing in at £12.47.
People are starving to death in eastern Africa - lots of them, and horribly. I awoke this morning to hear on the radio a report from a BBC man who had interviewed some of those streaming towards a UN-run camp.
I was meeting up with someone I worked with, ooh, getting on for 20 years ago and whom I hadn't seen for pushing 15. I was coming from Manchester; she from Soho, London.
Birds Eye sold £7.5m worth of its Traditional Chicken Dinners last accounting year - and as these meals are made in the Republic of Ireland with imported chicken breast, "homestyle" gravy, potatoes and garden vegetables, I can
Tennis is not what it was. Now it's all about branding and the annual disappointment of Andy Murray. (Oh, Murray.
Another week has flown by and it's Sunday again. Not just any Sunday, though: Father's Day.