Shabana Mahmood wasn’t tough enough
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I was once called ‘rude and uncivilised’ by an Airbnb host and accused of leaving the flat ‘covered everywhere with small stones brought in from the beach’. I was taken aback, as I’d paid extra for cleaning. Did Lorenzo not agree that this included sweeping the floor? Perhaps that’s just Italians for you. His Nonna probably still does the hoovering for him. A five-star hotel will not leave you feeling like you’ve somehow imposed upon it by paying for a service I expect Lorenzo (not his real name) will be gesticulating wildly at news that Airbnb has officially excused guests who pay a cleaning fee from washing up and stripping beds.
This week's magazine
The race to go private
Postwar Britain can be defined by a bargain made with its middle class: pay for public services but benefit from them too. Private education has always been the choice of a very small minority; private healthcare was reserved for the wealthiest and those whose employers paid for it. Middle England was content to send their children to the same schools as everyone else and use the same GPs, hospitals and dentists. This is no longer true. State spending continues to grow, yet large parts of the population now pay privately to supplement what their taxes have already provided.
Postwar Britain can be defined by a bargain made with its middle class: pay for public services but benefit from them too. Private education has always been the choice of a very small minority; private healthcare was reserved for the wealthiest and those whose employers paid for it. Middle England was content to send their children to the same schools as everyone else and use the same GPs, hospitals and dentists. This is no longer true. State spending continues to grow, yet large parts of the population now pay privately to supplement what their taxes have already provided.
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Authors hate it when reviewers refer to their book as a ‘weighty tome’ as it implies that the contents are going to be about as much fun as Deuteronomy. So I should make it clear that while Tim Hayward’s The Cocktail Hour (Quadrille, £20) is extremely weighty, that’s because the production values are off the scale. The monks at Lindisfarne could scarcely have put more effort into illuminating their work. And while the paper is heavy, Hayward’s writing is as refreshing as a perfectly made dry martini. There are hundreds of cocktail books out there, but none combine Hayward’s erudition, obsession and sense of humour. He is at once deadly serious and very, very funny. It’s the best book on the subject since Bernard DeVoto’s 1948 book The Hour.