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Lara Prendergast

Skiing without the crowds? Go to Japan

When trying to imagine what it would be like to ski in Japan, I pictured a minimalist ski resort. I saw chic local skiers in monochrome outfits elegantly swishing down the slopes, before stopping for sushi and ramen. I assumed revellers would drink whisky, sake and beer in the evenings, although perhaps not to quite the same level of excess as in Europe. Skiing in Japan seemed exotic. Did I know the Japanese ski uphill, joked one wag before I left. Skiers can come straight off the mountain to find a restaurant for a bowl of spicy udon ramen To reach Niseko Village, the most famous ski resort in Japan,

Carrie Johnson and the tragedy of pond life

As so often, Hello! magazine had the scoop. Carrie and Boris Johnson are expecting again. This time it is ducks. For her 36th birthday Mrs Johnson was presented with an incubator and some duck eggs. Any day now there will be a splintering of shell and a chorus of incipient, high-pitched quacks as another waddling brood fights its way into the world. Yet more young beaks for Boris to feed, and all the little darlings topped by fluffy, yellow fur. Those Johnson genes! There is another sense in which baby ducks resemble MPs: they do not always last terribly long Duck incubators are fashionable in Chelsea-tractor circles. You need enough room

Max Jeffery

Unhappy? What a luxury

Rob Stephenson is trying to produce a sonic representation of joy. He’s DJing on stage at the World Happiness Summit in London, pumping out a kick drum at 124bpm. The sound represents the subliminal satisfaction you get from a walk round the park, Rob says. He adds bongos and the dinging noise of a triangle to the track – acoustic equivalents of proper sleep and good nutrition. ‘Can you feel it?’ Rob asks. ‘Can you feel it?’ More inexplicable sound is layered – the melody from ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay, the riff from ‘Seven Nation Army’ by the White Stripes – and Rob starts gyrating at his decks in aural ecstasy.

The snobbery of lemon supremacists

I love certain sour flavours, such as the sprinkle of lemon on a piece of oily fish, or fatty meat. It is perfect with food that is naturally sweet, such as brown shrimp, scallops, or young, fresh peas. But spare me the heavy hand with the acid, which seems to be getting more and more frequent when it comes to pre-seasoned food in restaurants. Lemon juice should be a background note, helping the main flavours to stand out. It should not make you wince as though you are chewing a live wasp. We should resist drowning our food in lemon juice in the way that we would ketchup or salt

Two tips for the Irish Grand National

Irishman Martin Brassil is a brilliant target trainer but even he has to handle the ups and downs that come with participating in the so-called Sport of Kings. Horse racing, particularly at the highest level, can bring despair as well as joy as Brassil experienced at last week’s Cheltenham Festival when he had three fancied runners over the three days. Built by Ballymore was a disappointing 4-1 favourite when he came only 14th of the 21 runners in the Coral Cup Handicap Hurdle, Fastorslow unseated his rider when well-fancied for the Boodles Cheltenham Gold Cup and, worst of all, Ose Partir, was brought down and, sadly, fatally injured in the Boodles

’Allo ’allo, have you got a licence for that model engine?

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted a steam engine. When I was five my parents promised that I could have one when I was 12: I think they thought I’d forget. I didn’t, and seven Christmases later I unwrapped a model traction engine made by the Birmingham firm of Mamod. It was chunky and basic, and its bright green and red paint gave it a toy-like appearance. But its brass valves and copper pipes were unquestionably the real thing. Out in the garden, Dad and I lit it up. The engine grew warm, it hissed; its flywheel whirred into life. And a glorious aroma filled the

The irresistible horror of the farm shop

Picture the scene; you’re Kate Middleton and it’s Saturday lunchtime. You’re out enjoying suburban Windsor. The Audi is safely stowed – along with hundreds of other cars mostly produced in Germany, the Czech Republic or the West Midlands – in a nearby car park the size of the deck of the USS Harry S. Truman and about as eco-friendly. The farm shop is a kind of Peppa Pig World for adults There’s a faux 1950s Citroen van-lookalike with corrugated panels from which a pair of stressed teens in brown aprons are selling overpriced macchiatos, almond lattes and stone-cold hot chocolates, to a lengthening queue of gilet-wearing mums and dads. Most of

In defence of ready meals

Earlier this week I read that, from the moment of pulling into the car park to exiting it, the average supermarket shopper reads just seven words. Seven words. My initial reaction was: who are these Neanderthals? So, for want of something to talk about over supper after nearly 20 years of shackles, I ran this random fact past my husband. He was amazed anyone read as many as seven. My reaction this time was more fulsome: who is this Neanderthal, and why am I having dinner with him? When I was home from boarding school, I was positively relieved when she reached for an M&S carbonara rather than Delia These

What my strange old friends taught me

As a young man I sought out the company of much older people in the arts, feeling they had some secret to life, often the same one in different guises, which I wanted, needed to discover. In the let-it-all-hang-out youth culture of the 1990s I felt awash, and the elderly (which to a 20-year-old meant anyone over 60) were also kinder, less threatening, more generous with their time. Two people who influenced me most were Daniel Farson – roistering Soho writer and broadcaster, a kind of modern-day Toby Belch – and Karin Jonzen, a septuagenarian Swedish sculptress with a studio off the King’s Road. It was all pure gold, a