Today marks seven months since I had to get up and go to work. How time flies!
One of the first things to go, in my post-redundancy existence, were my multiple gym memberships - one had inspirational instructors, a spa, pool and a really good masseuse called David.
Snapped today in the City, a note from someone who wandered our streets over the holiday weekend. But hey, it's written in chalk and spelled incorrectly, so...
London is overflowing with social rules and expectations. Walk through Canary Wharf not wearing business attire (and these days, a look of anxiety) and you can expect to feel like an alien.
I loathe venturing into the Square Mile these days. I spend the whole time furtively glancing around like a fugitive on the run - worrying I might bump into a soon-to-be ex colleague.
If there’s ever been a call to arms in the history of this website, now is the time. For teachers, doctors, laid-off bankers and anyone who flies economy in this economy, this is our moment of truth!
Just before the snow started falling last week, a story hit the BBC news screens about a nurse who had been disciplined by her local health authority. She had offered to pray for one of her sick patients.
Today I hosted a play date for my 10-month-old and her pals - her diary is infinitely more diverse than mine these days. I’m not sure whether she learnt any new tricks (other than endorsing her status as queen bee of her own play mat) but what I learnt is that to covet is nature, not nurture.
Now that the holidays are over, it is impossible not to feel somewhat annoyed at all the Christmas advertisements. Images of Kate Moss telling us to "Get the London Look" and Marks and Spencer's gastro-pornographic half-priced wild Alaskan salmon, plastered in festive sparkle.
Last year, the City witnessed the dramatic end of the Gilded Age, where both entitlement and corruption were the emblems of power. It’s time for reflection, and time for redemption. But before we start afresh in 2009, I feel we’re missing something from the City’s most powerful who caused this financial mess. It’s called remorse.
Our fearless reporter tries out a gas-free campstove which can also charge her phone: will it actually work?
May it please the reader: The question before us — the only question before us — is the histrionics. The meaning of the histrionics. We are not concerned here with the guilt or innocence, as such, of Mr. Pistorius.
Fulham properties, with no planning permission, join the 'crazy prices' auctioneers are achieving in parts of the capital