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.
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.
From using euphemisms such as “collateral damage” to faking orgasms, we practise deception all the t
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.
Can fashion be feminist?
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'
That first autumnal chill arrived early this year: I felt it, with depressingly little surprise, in August.
“It would be silly to pretend that models aren’t tall and thin”
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.
The Westfield Stratford centre, backed by a former Israeli commando and touted as the future face of London by the likes of Boris Johnson, makes a mockery of the East End’s history of productive work.
Felicity Cloake celebrates a new and sophisticated golden age of the cocktail
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?
Rosamund Urwin of the <em>London Evening Standard</em> on a week of whingeing bankers, trouble for t
The idea that everyone has a soulmate whom they are destined to love for ever is both implausible an
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!
Reaching out to other human beings ought to be the easiest thing. Why do I find it so difficult?
Camilla Long on a week of sleeping with the Tories, relief for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the meaning o
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
In the 1980s, Silicon Valley was populated by lefties and hippies who dreamed of a computer revoluti
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.