I’ve written a fair few articles for the Telegraph recently, including one about self-isolation that was composed in larkier times when this was a niche rather than a national (in)activity. They can all be found here, though behind a paywall and marked premium (which makes them sound like one of the more expensive supermarket ranges).
One was inspired by the posters for the film Downhill. Again travelling on the underground and seeing posters for films to watch in actual cinemas seems like something from a bygone age. It’s about my antipathy towards skiing, a feeling shared by quite a few female halves of couples I know. I don’t know why it should be this way – always the woman who wonders why anyone thinks that throwing yourself down on a mountain on thin pieces of plastic is a good idea.
It’s sad because after trying really, really hard for six years on acquiring a new and dangerous hobby in my 40s, this year I’ve decided to hang up my badly fitting hired boots. Six weeks after the holiday and I’m still hobbling around and looking with envy and all those maligned joggers taking their state-sanctioned exercise.