Masterpiece London

I had planned to leap from my bed and take exercise followed by a hearty breakfast but it did not quite happen that way. I hauled myself out into the day following a rather later night than was wise.
Within a trice we were driving through France towards Belgium. The boys had been at a party the night before and so they slept. In addition my musical taste is not theirs so whilst they dozed I was not allowed to listen to music, as my choices would have been too toxic.
Arriving on site in high viz with my steel-toe-capped boots, there is a frenetic energy crackling in the atmosphere. The
London is currently hosting art galleries from across the world in the confines of The Royal Hospital Chelsea as specialists
Watching England play football is an extraordinarily masochistic exercise. It is like waiting to be punched - the question is not whether or not you will be punched, the only question is when. As Harry and I roam over the site, he banters with his crew in Dutch, swapping manly hugs, jokes and the occasional kiss.
I have just come across one of the saddest, most extraordinary obsessions ever to sweep Britain: for a few decades, Victorian Brits went completely mad for all things hummingbird.
It's all Masterpiece now. My life is on hold until the last contractor packs up his tools and vacates the site. Masterpiece
I am sad, very sad. For the last few days I have been haunted by the news of the man who pulled up outside the Jewish museum in Brussels, and shot and killed two visitors and a member of staff. There are photographs on the internet of him firing through the door.
My first time in NY I had a terrible row. A director of Mallett at that time - it was 1996 - on arrival I was daunted by my first experience of serious jet lag. It was stupid o'clock in the morning, as far as I was concerned, when I sat down to dinner with my then boss Lanto Synge.
Knuckling down is a great phrase which simultaneously calls to mind the twin thoughts of hard work and orangutans. After