Politics

My great-grandmother Netty died in June 2005, aged 99. I was four. That evening, my grandmother called us grandchildren into her living room and opened what looked like a small treasure chest. Out spilled her sparkling jewels. ‘Take whatever you want,’ she said. ‘She’d have wanted you to have them.’ I grabbed three things: a pair of glittering earrings, a silver bracelet and a gold Star of David encircled by a delicate band touching each of the star’s points. At four, I only cared for the earrings. The rest I tucked away for ‘less special’ occasions.  At 16, I found the star again, hidden in my jewellery box. Remembering my great-grandmother Netty,

We’re woefully resigned to the strange situation whereby if an alien landed, they’d believe that being famous was hereditary, like being royal. But when I looked at the Wikipedia page of Louis Theroux, I almost fell out of my wheelchair chuckling. Not only is he the son of the ‘noted travel writer and novelist’ Paul Theroux, ‘he is the nephew of novelist Alexander Theroux and writer Peter Theroux. His older brother, Marcel, is a writer and television presenter. His cousin, Justin, is an actor and screenwriter.’ Theroux – educated at Westminster and Magdalen College, Oxford, naturally – is said to be a ‘massive hip hop head’ Kind of like the Beckhams without the beauty;

Hallowe’en is nearly over for another year. Thank goodness, you might say. Each October, many Brits scratch their heads about when this festival became such a big thing. I am as guilty as the next person in doing so: only last weekend I reflected, with a combination of curiosity and weariness, that ‘when I was young’, October 31 was simply not as hotly anticipated a date in the calendar. The blame for Hallowe’en inflation is often directed at the Americans. But it’s not fair to blame our US cousins. Hallowe’en is something of an ancient Christian tradition. Strip away crass commercialisation and that was what Hallowe’en and the days which