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Charity begins at home, especially if you’re squatting in an underfunded donkey sanctuary.

WAKING with a hangover that necessitates my wiping away liquid brain matter oozing from my ears, I discard the wet tissues and reflect on another week’s engagement with British political affairs.

WE owe him a formal apology. He dealt in untruths, we claimed. But Boris was nothing compared to the Lord of Deceit seated on his false throne.

MY husband and I may choose 1750s domesticity, but that does not mean we are repressed in matters of the bedroom. We leave the oil lamp lit if it’s his birthday.

When life gives you melons, make melanoma.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense it is as if my brain has been replaced with a dead goat, I take an aspirin and several gallons of water and reflect on the week’s events. 

I LIKE to think of myself as a moral person. I was in the Brownies for many years, even earning a Helping the Elderly badge for cleaning out my grandma’s biscuit cupboard. 

SINCE childhood I’ve felt a deep connection to the gastropod. Who could forget those endless, dreamy summers sewing them together for an epic snail conga?

Is Don’t Look Now really such a classic? You followed the instructions and you didn’t see anything scary or Julie Christie’s tits.

WAKING with a hangover whose painful pulsing could be detected by the crew of the Artemis II spacecraft, I look back on another week in which a prominent politician sought my counsel.