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The timing could not have been crueller. The pencil cases have just been replenished, the name tapes sewn on, the hair shorn
Read full article...Gwyneth Paltrow has been in Venice promoting her latest picture, Contagion, in which she has an affair, then dies of a seizure (even though I am told that one activity does not inevitably lead to the other)
Austerity Mum has brought light into all our crepuscular little lives with her relevations of the important changes she is making to her family's lifestyle and budget: she's cutting out helicopter transfers from Nice to the villa in Ramatuelle. She's going to Morocco instead of the Maldives at half-term. Yes, Austerity Mum agrees with George Osborne: we're all in it together so she's making sacrifices, too
Without my Johnson trademark mop of yellow hair, I think I would be nothing
It comes as no surprise to me that a male nanny is up for the childcare industry's biggest gong
Wench shirts, grand boulevards and metres of German sausage; Munich in summertime is a heaven
Dear Kate (if I may), Forgive me for writing out of the blue but I grabbed the Basildon Bond as soon as I heard that the Middleton skeleton seems finally to have tumbled out of your tidy family closet
In real life, when someone’s having a bad year, families tend to rally round. But the top table of world leaders isn’t like that, it seems
The woman pushed through the crowd towards Alan Yentob. “Michael Jackson has died,” she said, her irises huge
If I was Mayor I'd restrict vehicles of a certain size and weight in central London to defined, off-peak hours
"I wouldn't mind betting that there is less sex in the city than there is in the country because it's just, well, sexier here," says Liz Hurley in a recent interview in Tatler, clad in a couture ballgown that's obviously perfect for a long night in the lambing shed
The big football matches this week reminded me - I'd always thought that when it came to London's points of the compass, the clash was between north and west
The race to claim intellectual pre-emption of the credit crunch reached the final furlong this week.
At the weekend, I joined a rapturous, fiftysomething audience at the Royal Albert Hall for the Van Morrison gig (I think the youngest person there was Otis Ferry). The set was tighter than yesterday's Budget, his instrumental ability astonishing, his command of the 15-piece band total, his mastery of his material impeccable, his capacity to drink water diabetic, his voice unmatched in power and range.
So the City generates - or at least it did- £13 billion in income a year for other businesses, and, I am told, one hedge manager kept two other people in work
I am in the greengrocer in Dulverton buying rhubarb and bump into Somerset’s literary lion, Alexander Waugh
I am in the wilds of Exmoor for a fortnight, so here's the score so far: tweenagers under my roof - six. Plumbing emergencies - three. Responsible adults present - one.
There was blood on the stucco this week as the quarterly rent bills thudded in, giving coronaries to the owners of many little independent boutiques, delis, and shops in my 'hood, Notting Hill
Awful to open the papers to read about John Worboys, the black cab driver guilty of hundred of rapes and assaults on women. All the times I've said to my daughter when she was travelling home late, "Don't get in a minicab, whatever you do, get a proper taxi," thinking she'd be all right and now? Well, I'm determined this isn't going to change a thing.
It's often discouraging sitting working at home, wondering whether to put the heating on, answering the doorbell to the gas board, feeling it's all utterly pointless
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