All the things I do instead of writing…
Every year since I graduated twenty-one years ago, the phone rings with an Oxford prefix. Nearly all of us who matriculated in 1997 get this call, and each year we want it to be over before it has begun. I seem to be almost alone amongst my contemporaries in always picking up, despite knowing how... Continue Reading →
January is always somewhat downbeat. You start the first week of it thinking about all the plans you have, and looking at travel websites to firm up your holiday plans. Then you're entirely overwhelmed by stacks of work, and stacks of personal life admin that suddenly need doing overnight. This year was no exception in... Continue Reading →
A few weeks ago now Giles Coren's review of the Randolph appeared in The Times. It was accurately and amusingly bad, and intriguingly didn't even mention the only newsworthy event about The Randolph recently, namely the fire that broke out a few years ago. My memories of the Randolph are from occasional cream teas that... Continue Reading →
I don't really write much any more. This is partly due to not seeing the point in publishing stuff that no one will read, and partly because two small children remove most of my brain. I'm sure they get up in the night and suck all my ideas out with a straw. Anyway, my husband seems to... Continue Reading →
In November, I read an article in the Times written by Walter James, who turned 100 last year. It was entitled, "I remember love, just not how it feels". It was a beautifully written and poignant article, about both the practical hazards of a frail body, and the decline of sensibility that old age brings with... Continue Reading →
The resting writer 