Change and dismay are all around. Tony Blair's bad week is prompting unfavourable comparisons with his predecessor. The ex-chancellor Norman Lamont is telling anyone who will listen: "I never thought he would turn out so much like John Major."
Another week, another book launch. This week, it was Jill Westwood's first novel, Holding the Centre. I can't say that my toast flew out of my hand with excitement when the invitation from Axon Press turned up on my breakfast table.
Deborah Bosley's New Statesman article a couple of weeks ago, about the horrors of living in the country, certainly touched a nerve. People have been queuing up ever since to scream: "Me too, I'm also being driven into alcoholism by the tediousness of rural England."
A friend was uneasy about my condemnation - swift, he called it - of Lord Harris of Haringey in his capacity as chair of the police committee in the Greater London Assembly.
My flight to Sydney was in a Qantas aircraft painted entirely in Aboriginal motifs. The airline calls it the "Wunala Dreaming" and offers a scale model in its duty-free catalogue.
I'd lay odds that it was two-thirds of the way through the book and halfway down the left-hand page, but I'm still unable to turn up the paragraph in Martin Amis's superb Experience in which he talks about "writers" being people who are always hoping that everyone else will very shortly
What is the explanation for Alastair Campbell's persistent bad temper? As best I understand these things, he is engaged in a vicious battle with Peter Mandelson, the undisgraced Northern Ireland Secretary, for influence over the PM.
The scene is Darlington station. The time is Friday morning. There are lots of policemen and dogs (none of them for petting) about, plus a number of government limousines.
I thought it was outrageous. So did Roger and Helen. Sarah was an excellent researcher, but now came the news that her short-term contract would not be renewed. Something had to be done. Roger and Helen looked at me. Yes, I was happy to stand up and be counted.
My wife and I - I always have difficulty with that phrase. It makes me feel as if I should be cutting a ribbon or making a speech. "My partner and I" isn't much better. It manages to be coy, evasive and ambiguous, all at the same time.
A few days ago, the London Evening Standard introduced us to Lord Harris of Haringey, named by Mayor Livingstone as chairman of the Police Committee. His article urged us to welcome democracy in the organisation of the Metropolitan Police.
The curse of Tony is getting a bit serious. He is blighting the political futures of Downing Street apparatchiks, who fondly imagined that working at the court of the Sun King would be a passport to Westminster.
Whatever happened to long illnesses?
There must be doctors all over the country contemplating the recent scandals involving cancer-test errors, incompetent gynaecologists and deluded surgeons, and asking themselves: "Could I be next?" It must be like one of those mornings when you wake up with your head pounding, your tongue dry an
They crossed continents, perhaps heard from their bunkers the prattle of different languages. They were signed, sealed and delivered dead.
The great American reporter Seymour Hersh is at war with the American military over his j'accuse in the New Yorker that a much-lauded general, now a member of President Clinton's cabinet, ordered his troops to fire on retreating Iraqis on the eve of the Gulf war ceasefire in 19
Bernadette Gray-Little, an African-American psychology professor at the University of North Carolina, has concluded that low-income black teenagers, far from suffering a self-esteem problem, actually have higher self-esteem than their white counterparts.
Charlotte has let us down. For more than ten years, she and "Mickey Boy" have been the very model of a modern marriage.
MPs are trooping into Downing Street two by two for a pep talk from the Prime Minister. He must be rattled. Backbenchers certainly are. The latest opinion polls have put the fear of Blair up them.
There was once a psychiatric patient at the Royal Free Hospital in north London who suffered from an obsessive disorder. This manifested itself as a compulsion to count the windows in the Royal Free Hospital.
I spent one Saturday last March sitting on a quad bike with my arms wrapped around a farmer called Frank. This was Gloucestershire at the end of the hunting season, and we - neither of us keen on horseback riding - were bumping along, up and down hills, following the Beaufort hunt.
Elitism, various government ministers have been telling us, is the albatross around our collective neck. It is preventing bright young people at state schools from fulfilling their potential, and bright young working-class kids from starting their own businesses.
Nobody is safe. Millbank's vultures are circling over the oldies in vote-fat seats ahead of the election, picking off the vulnerable with the promise of a peerage. The latest target, I hear, is Giles Radice, the plummy-voiced Wykehamist MP for Durham North. He may not be so easy to shift.
You know the scene. You're sitting with a few friends at midnight, after having drunk six times the amount of alcohol recommended by the Health Education Authority as a safe weekly intake, when an argument breaks out.
Last year, Anwar Ibrahim, the former deputy prime minister of Malaysia, was given a six-year prison sentence for corruption. He was also charged with sodomy, punishable by up to 20 years' imprisonment.
From all the TV previews and special supplements in the newspapers, I see that it's going to be a Big Summer of Sport. And of Pop Festivals. How nice. I'll deal with the pop festivals first.