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”
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 and cruel.
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.
"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.
Winehouse was never interested in the normal rules of female celebrity.
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.
Nathan Myhrvold was Stephen Hawking's researcher and Bill Gates's right-hand man at Microsoft. Now, he aims to reinvent the cookbook.
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.
Evgeny Lebedev, son of a billionaire, owns newspapers, restaurants and a mansion near London. He bel
“Keeping a pig is great but Monster Munch are nice as well”
Another week has flown by and it's Sunday again. Not just any Sunday, though: Father's Day.
How British social history is written through our cookbooks.
Let's get to the point. Are there any lesbian bloggers out there who aren't straight, middle-aged, American men?
Sex is not the problem. Sexism is. Arbitrary moral divisions are being renewed between "innocent" women and "sluts".
A Sunday afternoon, and I am listening to Ligeti and wondering whether it was entirely wise of me to have invited the editor of this magazine for dinner.
My birthday. I have now reached the age Goebbels was when he died, although my achievements are fewer. And, thankfully, not in the same line. Still.