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Monday

Kit Delamain

I’m too British for la dolce vita

At this time of year, the heat of Naples wakes me up around 7. A five kilometre jog takes me over Monte Echia, from where I can see Vesuvius, Capri and the city below me framed in bright blue. After a cool shower, I go to a café for breakfast: a pastry and puddle of strong coffee paid for out of loose change. I spend the day sweating in front of a pizza oven, before strolling home, stopping to pick up some pungent tomatoes and red wine for dinner. Truly, this is a life I dreamt of, so why do I go to bed each night wracked with anxiety? If

Lucy Denyer

The tyranny of the self-service check out

The other week I popped into my big Morrisons after the school drop-off. It was a biggish shop, including things like socks, olive oil and washing powder, hence going to a proper supermarket rather than just whizzing into my local Tesco Express. Not being able to find the correct type of fruit or vegetable on the touch screen scores highly in the irritation stakes But lo and behold, when I came to check out my shopping, not a single manned till was open. ‘There’s nobody on them until 10 a.m. love,’ explained the apologetic cashier who inevitably had to help me with an unexpected item in the bagging area (a

Friday

Prue Leith

We oldies can’t help but think of death

I used to think a lot about Switzerland and how to accrue enough morphine to top myself when the time comes. But yay, at last, an assisted dying law seems likely and I can stop plotting. No one talks about death. But oldies think about it all the time, not deliberately – it just inserts itself into everything. I’d like to write another trilogy, but will I finish it? Doubt if I’ll last through novel 1, never mind 2 and 3. When the garden centre chap tells me to buy tiny saplings and avoid 15-foot trees which will likely die, I know I’ll be dead before the three-footers look anything

Nigel Jones

In praise of the Olympic champ stamp

As a confirmed critic of modern tattoos, who sounded off in these very pages about the ugly plague of body tats infesting our streets, I might be expected to disapprove of the latest manifestation of the fashion – the habit of many athletes taking part in the Paris Olympics to adorn themselves with the distinctive five interlocking rings of the Games’ logo: what I’m calling the ‘champ stamp’. In fact, the athletes have such beautiful bodies – young, toned and fit – and the rings themselves have such a pleasing symmetry that I can only approve and applaud the discreet addition of the logo to their rippling musculatures. As they

Penworthy

A tip for Britain’s richest flat handicap

York’s famous Ebor meeting will be here before we know it and trainer William Haggas will be attempting to plunder many of its top races with his talented string. Although his stables are in Newmarket, Haggas is a Yorkshireman and so he particularly enjoys seeing his runners win at the course which lies some 40 miles from his birthplace of Skipton. The race that Haggas targets with relish each year is the Sky Bet Ebor Handicap, which is the richest flat handicap run in Britain and has a prize of £300,000 for the winner. The contest on Saturday 24 August is over a distance of one mile six furlongs and

Mark Nayler

The problem with pintxo

Visiting San Sebastián last month, I was reminded of the joys and hazards of grazing. The speciality in this chic city, and throughout Spain’s northern Basque region, are pintxos – miniature open sandwiches topped with everything from chorizo and padrón peppers to anchovies and baby eels. Pintxoing, as I’ll call it, becomes almost like a game in San Sebastián’s labyrinthine Old Town, in which the regional delicacies are colourfully displayed in bar-top glass cabinets. The goal is to eat enough pintxos to keep hunger at bay, but not so many that you don’t have room for one more. You’re never starving, but the flipside is that you’re never entirely satisfied,

Wednesday