My fiancé is a very passionate man. One of the things that first attracted me to him was that passion. Long before I appeared in his life, long before our paths crossed, he already cared deeply about cars. There is something enormously attractive about watching somebody love what they do and throw themselves into it completely. Sometimes it's a little bewildering. Sometimes it's all-consuming. But enthusiasm on that scale is difficult to resist. His love of cars was firmly established before I arrived on the scene. Indeed, there are moments when I suspect his car, and I continue to compete for attention, although I should point out that only I receive a cup of tea in bed every morning, accompanied by a winning smile. His extraordinary car community, Vengaworld, has become a source of pleasure to thousands of people. It's rather wonderful to be driving through some distant town and suddenly spot a Vengaworld sticker in the rear window of a passing car. Their events have...
For many years I was a faithful viewer of Strictly Come Dancing. From around Series 4 until just after Covid, it was a Saturday-night ritual. Over time, though, my enthusiasm waned. Possibly age. Possibly lifestyle. Possibly the discovery that sequins, like novelty, have a shelf life. I tried to introduce Brayden to it last year. This was met with the polite bafflement normally reserved for explaining landlines. This year, however, I had a reason to watch. A close friend of mine, Lewis Cope — recently of Emmerdale and of many years’ friendship — was drafted in at the last minute. Let’s be clear: Lewis is not a trained dancer. Yes, he played Michael in Billy Elliot at eleven. Yes, he once danced in a tap show. But then he did what actors do: he went to drama school. On Strictly, of course, anyone who can distinguish left from right is accused of an unfair advantage. The truth is it’s no longer really a dance competition. It’s a popularity poll with lifts. Lewis was theatrical, c...
Freelancers live in a curious state of suspended certainty. On Sunday morning, at the beginning of a new week, I have absolutely no idea what might arrive in my inbox by the following Saturday. It could be three job offers, two interesting conversations and a slightly baffling enquiry about something I did in 1998. Or it could be… nothing at all. That’s the freelance bargain. Possibility on one side. Uncertainty on the other. I’ve always suspected that’s why it suits me. The idea of going to the same place every morning, sitting at the same desk, looking at the same three pot plants and pretending to be fascinated by a quarterly strategy document would slowly kill me. Freelance life, by contrast, is gloriously unpredictable. One day you’re writing something. The next you’re standing in front of a room of people talking about communication. The day after that you might be on a train wondering how you ended up doing any of it. But here’s the strange thing. People who live in const...
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