‘Hello Barbara,’ Emma says as she hauls the Hoover in through the front door. I can’t disguise my confusion. ‘As in Tom and Barbara. You know, from The Good Life.’ I don’t get it, at first. I still think of myself as this London chick — well, probably old broiler would be more accurate. But
My chocolate chip cookies have arrived at the farm shop. Caroline apologises as I walk in: ‘I’m afraid they’re Fairtrade.’ ‘All the better,’ I reply. ‘Why on earth would that be a problem?’ ‘They’re a little dearer. Some people don’t want to pay the extra pennies.’ Eleven packets equals a few extra pounds, but I’m
It is 11 p.m. on Saturday night and I am way out of my comfort zone. With my husband, two young children and dog, I have spent the day with 1,300 climate campaigners, none of whom I knew before, in a sodden field near Heathrow’s second runway. Now the five of us are squeezed into
