Arnold Toynbee read Spengler’s The Decline of the West as a young historian at the University of London and had the same reaction as I did when I first read Hemingway. It blew his mind. He found it both exhilarating and dismaying. Exhilarating because of its historical insights, dismaying for it disposed of the questions
‘Chair,’ said the free ad in the local paper. ‘Wing backed. Fireproof. As new. Never been sat in. £25.’ I rang the number and the owner suggested I went round and had a look at it right away. He sounded elderly and a bit desperate. The address he gave was a modest bungalow in the
If, like me, you’re convinced you’ll never be truly happy until you’ve shinned up the greasy pole it is easy to forget that not every high-status indicator is desirable. For instance, if I had £100 million my wife’s constant threats to divorce me might actually carry some weight. Then there’s the fate that befell David
New Year starter for ten: who said this? ‘When you hear people on TV talking about you in the same breath as people like Steven Gerrard or Freddie Flintoff, you look at it as if they’re talking about someone else. It’s weird. It’s very humbling and gives you a lump in your throat.’ No, not
Q. My very green sister-in-law delivered Christmas presents to our children this year by taking a train to our local station then cycling five miles from the station with the presents on her back in a jute bag. Each one was wrapped, not in paper but in cloths, which she asked me to retain, suggesting
