Esther Walker

Esther Walker is the author of Well, This is Awkward (Bedford Square)

Wednesday

Esther Walker

I’ll do anything to keep Zack Polanski out of Kentish Town

On the morning of the 2005 general election, the young man who sat opposite me at work asked, ‘How did you vote?’ ‘That’s none of your business,’ I replied, in a silly, prim voice. A cruel look passed across his face. ‘You voted Tory, didn’t you?’ he crowed. ‘That’s why you won’t say!’ He started to point at me. ‘Tory voter! TORY SCUM!’ I was appalled. It was my first experience of tribal politics and I didn’t like it. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I certainly didn’t reveal how I’d voted. If I had voted for Michael Howard’s Conservative party, I would have been too ashamed to admit it and if I had voted Labour, I wouldn’t have wanted to admit that, either – not if it meant I was now a kindred spirit to this maniac.

Friday

Esther Walker

Elon Musk to Clavicular: should we fear the manosphere? with Peter Hitchens & Toby Young

40 min listen

For this week’s Edition, William Moore is joined by the Spectator’s associate editor and director of the Free Speech Union Toby Young, journalist and author Esther Walker, and Mail on Sunday columnist Peter Hitchens. This week: the men on the spectrum who rule the world. Charles Steel writes in the magazine about the wealthy, obsessive and often unconventional figures who increasingly shape politics and technology – from Elon Musk to the crypto billionaire Ben Delo. Is autism a useful way of understanding these men or has society become too obsessed with diagnosing people?

Elon Musk to Clavicular: should we fear the manosphere? with Peter Hitchens & Toby Young

Wednesday

Esther Walker

Don’t fear the manosphere

I don’t pry too much into the online life of my son. At 13, Sam is a good boy. He does well at school, eats his veg, loves his mum and captains his county cricket team. What more could I want? I suppose he could be more accurate when lobbing his pants at the laundry basket, especially considering he’s a spin bowler, but that’s a small detail. Last year, he started working out. He asked for weights and a pull-up bar. That was fine by me: boys have wanted big muscles since the dawn of time. Even my father owns a chest expander, that orangey-yellow and black one that was in every 1970s household. And Dad, who is now 91, taught history at Oxford and translates Goethe for fun, so it must be OK.

Friday

Esther Walker

Coffee-drinking is a cult

Ten years ago, I started getting migraines. They were so bad that when one struck, I babbled nonsense, couldn’t speak, type or write. The swelling in my head, which caused the migraine, was pressing on the language department of my brain. Once recovered, I was confused for days, repeating words three or four times in a row and not quite understanding what was being said to me.  This all had to stop immediately, as communication is key to the smooth operation of my life. It was suggested to me that coffee is a common migraine trigger and if I was looking for a culprit I ought to start right there. I immediately cut out the black stuff and the migraines stopped.

Wednesday

Esther Walker

The safety features in my car are downright dangerous

When we needed a new family car, I insisted on the Kia Sportage. My friend Charlotte leant me her Which? website password, I part-exchanged my erratic Volvo XC40 and a lovely Kia Sportage duly arrived. Of course, I immediately whizzed off to one of my favourite places in the world: Brent Cross Shopping Centre. I fantasised about all the things from John Lewis that I was going to toss into the Kia’s spacious boot.   But my daydreams were interrupted by an unexpected cacophony of noises from the car. Bleep… bleep… bleep! Ping! Plink! Plink-plink! Wonnngggg!

Friday

Esther Walker

Why don’t we wear proper shoes any more?

People can seem completely normal, until you look at their shoes. Particularly men. There they are, appearing sane: natty haircut, ironed shirt, non-psychotic trousers. But then: oh, horror! Terrible shoes. Slimy-looking Docksides, or Toms espadrilles, or something shiny and pointy. Or tremendous show-off brogues like Mr Noisy, with those execrable metal tap things, worn only by bounders and con men.  I was once, aged 23, struck silent with horror by the shoes of a boy who accompanied me to a beach: a pair of dusty brown lace-ups it seemed he’d had since Upper Sixth. I now understand this to be tremendously posh but at the time it turned my stomach. I am too suburban for that kind of thing.

Thursday

Esther Walker

Have I been blacklisted by the binmen?

Monday, and Camden council have yet again failed to empty my food waste bin. They never miss my rubbish or dry recycling – it’s only ever the smelly stuff. I give my neighbour’s brown bin a little kick. Emptied! This feels personal. I call the council. ‘Look, this is a nightmare,’ I say. ‘This is the second week in a row. Are we on a blacklist?’ Pause. ‘Our operatives are too busy to keep lists,’ says the lady. Hang on – you mean if they weren’t so busy, they would?