Lara Prendergast

When I was little I owned a set of pencils that had my name engraved on them. I didn’t have anything else with ‘Lara Prendergast’ on it other than my school uniform. The pencils seemed so rare and precious that I tried not to use them. The other day I found one stored away, the lead still sharp. Personalised pencils aren’t too rare any more. In fact, stationery sits at the most mundane end of the personalisation spectrum. These days you can have your name on pretty much anything you buy. Personalised swings. Personalised bird feeders. A personalised ‘selfie’ toaster, which singes a picture of your face on to every piece of bread. Personalised tennis balls and horse saddles. Or a personalised quiver for your personalised arrows, perhaps.

Ella Mills, née Woodward - aka 'Deliciously Ella' - was on Radio 4 this morning discussing 'clean eating'. Many will know her as one of the main advocates of this fashionable nutritional advice, even though she now says she doesn't like to use the phrase 'clean'. Her best-selling book suggested that food could be used as medicine and could help cure illness. In August 2015, Isabel Hardman and I looked at the cult of clean eating in The Spectator. It had all the elements of a classic cult - devotees, a life-changing, inspirational message, a distinct lack of evidence to back up any of it - and now, it seems, even its most prominent priestesses are starting to repent. Mills's book became one the fastest-selling debut cookbooks of all time.

My year was topped and tailed with trips to Rome. In March, as the blossom unfurled along the Tiber and the city’s churches prepared for Easter, I met four girlfriends from university, one of whom was working as a chef for the Rome Sustainable Food Project based at the American Academy. Then, in late November, I went back by myself and stayed at the Villa Spalletti Trivelli. It’s hard to say which was more pleasurable; Rome is Rome in every season. In spring, we all crammed ourselves into a bedsit in an old pasta factory in the fashionable Trastevere district.

It was a race between the first dude — Bill — and the first nude — Melania. And in the end, the first nude won, appearing next to her husband in the early hours wearing a white jumpsuit straight out of Charlie’s Angels. It may seem unfair to judge Mrs Trump so early on, but judged she will be. She awaits her turn, just as Hillary Clinton once did. How will she fare? Well, liberal American voters will want targets, and she looks like one. People are already making jokes about Michelle Obama writing Melania’s first speech, to save her the trouble of plagiarising again. There is so much for her to live up to. She must be as elegant as Jacqueline Kennedy; as eloquent as Mrs Obama; as astute as Nancy Reagan; as political as Hillary Clinton.

The mood in California was apologetic. Most people we met seemed embarrassed that their country’s dirty laundry was being aired quite so publicly. Hillary or the Donald? It will have to be Hillary, they sighed. Few seemed stirred by the prospect, but it was hard to avoid the subject. In Half Moon Bay in San Mateo county, we stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, perched on top of the cliffs. While salty mist drifted across the Pacific and pods of whales floated by, the second presidential TV debate rumbled on in the hotel bar. As the two candidates sparred, guests tut-tutted over their gin fizzes and tried not to look entertained. It was pumpkin season and the fields were dotted with swollen, pimply gourds.

The Spectator podcast: Listen to Isabel Hardman, Lara Prendergast, Charlotte Jee, Editor of Techworld, and Professor Martin Conway, head of psychology at City University discuss the memory gap. Ask me what I had for lunch yesterday and I couldn’t tell you. Names disappear as swiftly as smoke. Birthdays, capital cities, phone numbers — the types of facts that used to come so readily — are no longer forthcoming. I’m 26, yet I feel I have the memory of a 70-year-old. My brain is a port through which details pass, but don’t stay. I’m not alone. Many young people feel our memories have been shot to pieces. It’s the embarrassing secret of my generation. We can hardly recall a thing.

The long-awaited Chilcot report has finally been published today. It comes during a very tumultuous time in British politics - and while its publication was always going to be fractious, it remains to be seen how the Tories - and more interestingly, Labour, use it to their advantage. The 12-volume report, which is 2.6 million words long and can be found here, will be dissected over the coming days, but here's a quick summary of some of the key statements from it: Key points The report concludes that the UK chose to join the invasion of Iraq before the peaceful options for disarmament had been exhausted. Military action at that time was not a last resort.

A year or so ago, I inherited a cardboard box filled with plants. It was an offshoot from an enormous collection that belonged to a young botanist from Stockwell. He was about to be turfed out of the derelict building he lived in and hundreds of plants were being spread across London. I offered to rehome a few. My only outdoor space is a window box, so most of the plants had to face life indoors. Some were happy; others withered. I enjoyed having them, though, so I replaced the dead and began a collection. My one-bed flat now contains more than 20 plants. The window box is bursting with herbs — parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. I’ve also added some mint. More knowledgeable friends tell me that it has aggressive roots and will soon turn into a despotic ruler.