I have always marvelled at the attitude of cat owners who point to bloodied arms or dramatic scratches and explain – with docile, almost apologetic acceptance – that Jasper or Bella just got a bit annoyed. It was all the human’s fault for patting them in the first place. Violent animals are a form of
Bridget Jones isn’t what she used to be. The latest film, Mad About the Boy, features Bridget as a grieving widow with kids. It’s a sad departure from the Bridget of the 1990s, with her festive jumper, short skirts and saucy moments with Daniel Cleaver. I was 14 and Bridget Jones hit every note I wanted Mad
As a girl, and later a woman, prone to barbs and punchy elocutions, I have encountered a great many repercussions for my words. My re-education began in primary school when the mother of a classmate angrily rang my mum to tell her that I had said this or that outrageous thing to her daughter. (A
Freeloaders rejoice: Waitrose is bringing back free coffee for customers even if they don’t buy anything. This is a bad idea that will make shopping in what was once a nice supermarket even more miserable. The reintroduction of free coffee means more people through the door, and therein lies the problem Before the pandemic, the
‘Immersive’ exhibitions get a bad rap. And it’s not hard to see why. But if, like me, you find yourself hard-pressed to concentrate on Important Art when troubled by the cares and complexities of life, then digitally amplified sensation and spectacle might be a decent alternative if your museal itch needs scratching in stressful times. There
Over the years I have learned not to take BMI measurements too seriously. I’m pretty healthy, touch wood, and fit, and don’t look remarkably like a porker. But by BMI standards, I am very definitely “overweight”, once or twice even bordering on the dreaded orange swathe of the chart that signifies obese (“severely obese” is
There is no land more lovely than Wales. I have walked through a magical forest to splash in the shallow, shimmering waters of the sea at the forested Newborough Beach in Anglesey and traipsed out to the monastery on the spit. I’ve struggled up Mount Snowdon while being pummelled by the angry Welsh wind and
A few months ago in Primrose Hill, I overheard a woman from the Camden New Journal, the local paper, asking in a café about rumours of a Gail’s opening in the famously anti-chain neighbourhood. Just a few weeks previously, there had been uproar in Walthamstow about a new branch – an unpleasant alliance of the
When I saw that Jocelyn Wildenstein, aka the Bride of (art dealer Alec) Wildenstein, had died at the age of 84, I began compulsively flicking through the widely-shared galleries of horror photos depicting the three-decade plastic surgery odyssey for which she was known. But the picture that struck me most – more, even, than the
With quiet, sinister inevitability, the health and safety edifice has been marching through the festive season, capturing new terrain. Arguably the most powerful cultural force in Britain today, a new target has been seized: the weather. Suddenly, the warnings issued by the Met Office – whose weather forecasting service rarely seems reliable – are taken
Being a woman walking on the street at night, especially on your own, is still scary. No matter that we live in an age of progressiveness and equal rights, of post #MeToo vigilance: the threat of violence by men against women under cover of darkness remains elemental and real. Lights on a quiet street are
James Joyce called Guinness ‘the wine of Ireland’. Now it feels a bit more like the Coca-Cola of alcohol – as much brash branding as beer. Once, it merely had an ugly logo and the rowdy promise of Emerald Isle hedonism which – I confess I have often thought – is crafted to appeal to
This week, the Groucho Club in Soho had its licence suspended by Westminster Council after a request from the Metropolitan police, who are investigating a ‘serious criminal offence’ said to have taken place on its grounds. Beyond ‘serious’, the crime has yet to be specified. But one thing is certain: the Groucho has gone down
Going to restaurants used to be fun. So much so that in the first two booze-sloshed decades of the 21st century, restaurants were the key setting for most of my social activity. My friends and I, living in pretty nasty rented rooms, spent our disposable income on two or three meals out a week, where
For the kind of people who think London ought to be all Farrow and Ball-coated quaintness and whiffs of Dickensianism, Canary Wharf is a rude assault, an obnoxious jungle of the anti-quaint. It is also, to many, an embarrassing paean to a moment that only the 1980s could have produced: one of gauche capitalistic, deregulatory
It is tempting, confronted with the news that British Airways is to swap out lunch on long-haul flights leaving between 8.30am and 11.29am in favour of a ‘Great British Brunch’, to conclude that flying has simply gone to the dogs. The cost-cutting move, which applies to business and First Class passengers, has raised many an
Old or young, fat or thin, body-positive or body-embarrassed, man or woman, everyone with money seems to be on a weight-loss drug: Wegovy, Mounjaro or Ozempic (which although a diabetes drug, is so often used off label for weight loss that there have been supply shortages). In the past couple of weeks alone, two freewheeling
In the showy harbourside enclave of Sandbanks, in Dorset, properties regularly go for upward of £7 million; one bungalow there recently sold for £13 million. Footballers and screen stars call it home. But there are two things money can’t buy when it comes to Sandbanks: sunshine and style. It’s a desperately cramped, traffic-ridden place Estate agents
Sunday lunch is a bit like the Edinburgh festival. People make a big thing of it, it’s considered a British treasure, and I am meant to book it, go to it, and like it. But I don’t. If Edinburgh is forever associated in my mind with glowering edifices of grim dark stone, hostile chilly sun
Spain is busy with an image update. Thanks to a host of savvy media stories, we’re now supposed to think of Spain not just in terms of package holidays, sangria, and Catholicism but also as chic, romantic, stylishly left-wing – the macho anti-fascism of Hemingway’s Spain updated for the #MeToo age – and devastatingly cutesy.
