Somebody dies and his friends say ‘he passed’. Passed what? He didn’t pass. He failed. He took the most basic test of all, ‘are you responsive?’, and his answers fell short of the required standard. True, he was awarded a bit of paper, a death certificate, but it’s no use to him on his CV.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news about the Germans?’ I asked, and then I offered a few more options. The builder boyfriend got out of his truck as he returned from fixing a gate. He looked askance and sighed. Whatever our latest B&B guests had done, he said, it was obviously
Mrs Ray is worried. Although she’s finally accepted that I drink too much when I’m out and about or at home with company, she’s fretting that I drink too much tout seul. Some misguided saps regard drinking on one’s own as the start of a very slippery slope, but I believe it to be one
Charlie, my 17-year-old son, was hopeful about QPR’s chances this season. True, we managed to avoid relegation only by the skin of our teeth in 2024-25, but we’ve just appointed a new manager: a Frenchman called Julien Stéphan, who won the Coupe de France in 2019 with Rennes, beating Paris Saint-Germain in the final, and
They used to be places that reeked of testosterone, sweat and male egos, their floors sticky with lager spilled by big boys with big biceps. Well, that’s all changing. As the Women’s Rugby World Cup powers through its early stages, the latest spin-off from the rise and rise of women’s sport is women’s sports bars.
Q. A good friend often cycles over when I invite him for drinks. The trouble is he insists on turning up slightly sweaty in Lycra, and it makes things awkward when other guests are in jackets and dresses. Mary, how can I steer him towards something more civilised without causing offence? – B.H., London SW3
I like a picnic weighted with history and class terror, which means Fortnum & Mason on Piccadilly, which is historical re-enactment with dreaming. I have written about this for years or tried to: food is never just food, only fools say that. You can learn almost everything about people from the food they want. And
‘That’s a boy cow,’ said a woman in the train to a little girl, adding in an aside to an adult companion: ‘I didn’t use the other word because it’s too much like…’ The other word must have been bullock and the word it too much resembled was bollock. Bollock used to be spelt ballock.
She says, well you look great now you’ve lost so much weight, looking up the Lower Clapton Road where a black zigzag of a ravine stretches from the chemist on the corner to the doner where they sell rum baba, and she adds, you could even wear shorts, while my bra strap bites into the
for Zoya (b. 1926) The past is an undigested meal. Small things trap us, she says. How a girl can pop out to search for bread and be gone for twelve years. That washing dead bodies becomes routine. Dreams come thicker now, like smoke from the transport train to Nazi Germany – rib-cage to rib-cage
Half-truths present themselves complete as memories write fainter. Keep this in mind: that’s when we meet the mind whose grasp is greater, retouching like a painter the smudges all the world can see, the freedom in our data, our mind too data-free. Well-being gleams along its scale. We barter for our ration, too late, too
It has been quite some year for jockey-churning, the latest example being the mid-season decision by owner-breeder Imad Al Sagar to drop Hollie Doyle as his retained rider. ‘A change of strategy,’ said racing manager Teddy Grimthorpe after Hollie’s 38 winners for the partnership including three Group 1s on Nashwa. It was nevertheless an eyebrow-raiser
