Life

High life

Another New York institution bites the dust

Except for sickness in one’s family or the loss of a life, is there anything sadder than to see a bookstore shut its doors? I used to live on a street that had three bookstores within 50 yards of each other. All three are now boutiques selling expensive bric-à-brac, or whatever the junk that tarts

Low life

The best thing about travel-writing gigs is meeting other hacks

The thing I enjoy most about travel-writing gigs is meeting other hacks. Hacks are almost invariably fun, funny, gossipy, irreverent, and they like a drink. They are well read and intelligent, but like to conceal it. They know and understand the lineaments of power as well as politicians, only they think it’s funny. On multi-hack

Real life

How I lost my hat (and my dignity) in a field of maize

After our spectacular season opener, the spaniel and I were on probation. Cydney, you may recall, retrieved a hen bird stuck in a stream but then ran off on a freelance flushing mission between drives. I thought it was rather a success, on balance. But the rest of the shoot begged to differ and judged

More from life

Dear Mary

Drink

The great lunchtime wine showdown

This is a tale of two lunches, sort of. The first was a classically English affair. We started with native oysters, my first of the season: everything that they should be. Then there was succulent roast pork, its crackling done to perfection. It was accompanied by the Platonic idea of Brussels sprouts. Straight from the

Mind your language

Control

In his speech on immigration last week, David Cameron said a couple of funny things. I’m not talking about the politics. Heaven forbid. I mean the language. Why did he call the City of London ‘the financial epicentre of the world’? Epicentre means ‘the point over the centre’, and in seismology it is the place

Poems

Into the Night

You fling yourself out the door into the wind and start to row yourself down the steep hill with your standard issue steel stick, working it along the dark path, clickety-click, clickety-click. It’s a path you would know with your eyes closed, the old Richmond Hill you cycled up and down as a boy, in

The Wiki Man