Mary Wakefield

Dr Salvatore LaSpada (what a lovely name) had a plaintive piece in yesterday's Daily Telegraph about how little we Brits give to charity. America gives away 1.7 per cent of it's GDP to good causes, he says, so what's with our pitiful 0.7? Giving is great! says LaSpada encouragingly, "It's the best fun you'll ever have!"  Whoa there Dr S! But he's right of course, giving does generally feel good, so there's probably a decent reason why we don't. And the reason I think is actually quite simple. It's not that we've contracted our consciences out to the State, or that we're intrinsically mean, but rather that Big Charity has taken over in the UK, and donating to Big Charity is no fun.

The road was cordoned off by Horse Guards parade on Friday afternoon, because of some ‘function’ on the pavement beside the Treasury building: squat little marquee, squat little men drinking warm champagne and 30 odd police officers standing around in the street with truncheons. As I herded with the crowd along the pedestrian detour I saw a blind man in a smart suit with a guide dog, fumbling in a panicky way at the police barrier. He worked in the Treasury opposite, he said, and though there'd been a gap in the fence 5 mins ago, which he’d popped through to walk his dog, it now seemed to have vanished. I couldn't see the gap either, so I called out to a nearby policewoman, and this is how the conversation went: Policewoman: “Oh, I just closed that gap.

Help, please! Yes you – don’t pass me by, I have a problem and I need your advice. How can cyclists survive – not just physically, though that’s also tricky – but financially? We bike because it’s practical and ethical, and because we’re encouraged to by our political leaders, but why should we go on when it’s just impossible to stop a bike being nicked? This is how bad it’s got  – there I was at 2am last night lying on my sofa, reading some cop book, squinting with exhaustion when I heard a thin electonic whine, as if from a hedge strimmer, coming through the open window. I ignored it. Read on. But only a few sentences later, being even nosier than I am lazy, I wandered over to the window to have a peer around.

Has anybody noticed that slowly, slowly, (little by little) short people are taking over the world? They took Hollywood many decades ago, beetling their way into the limelight with their bulging eyes and cuban heels. Then they quietly assumed the moral and spiritual high ground, with the truly minuscule Saint Mother Teresa and Gandhi. These days they're after political power. There used to be a ban on very short people becoming famous politicians -- they were there, in the background, but like rats or baby pigeons, they never dared show themselves in public. But now there's that charismatic little titch Sarkozy set to become President of France and the pint-sized tyrant Ahmadinejad in the east. Neither seem ashamed. And isn't Hillary Clinton on the short side?

Is it ethical to snoop around an Archbishop’s sitting-room? Surely, I decide, a gentle stroll around furniture is OK: past a gilt mirror and a large crucifix, past a picture book of the Jewish Haggadah and over to a baby grand tucked into the curve of a bay window. There are two piano pieces on the stand and no sign of Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor — it seems sensible, not sneaky, to see if the music offers any insight into the man’s mind. The first piece is Chopin’s Grande Valse Brillante; underneath it, Francis and Day’s Community Song Book with optional guitar accompaniment. Then, behind me, a voice, ‘Do you play the piano?’ The Cardinal is smiling, dressed in immaculate black, thinner than I expected, older.

Mary Wakefield looks back at our issue of 24 April 1926, and finds The Spectator reflecting on Mussolini, the brewing General Strike — and the off-side rule It was press day at The Spectator when Queen Elizabeth II was born. The printers had set the lines of type for the edition of 24 April 1926, and were waiting for the extra paragraph about the new royal baby. Did their hearts swell with pride when it arrived? The Spectator gave them the benefit of the doubt: ‘Universal pleasure has been caused by the birth of a daughter, on Wednesday, to the Duke and Duchess of York,’ it said. ‘The new Princess is third in the line of succession to the Throne, coming after the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York....

Everybody loves the Poles. Everybody loves reliable plumbers and natural-born nannies. Only Andrzej Tutkaj, of the Federation of Poles in Great Britain, is sceptical about the benefits of the march from East to West. I spoke to Mr Tutkaj on the telephone this week and asked him how all the new Poles were faring in London. There was silence, then a sigh. ‘I personally,’ said Mr Tutkaj, ‘don’t like to over-glorify the Polish people. They are far from ideal. ‘Since Poland joined the EU, it has been very hard work for the people in the firing line having to deal with desperate Poles with no money and nowhere to live. A lot of mistakes have been made.’ What do you mean?

An excited twitter filled the assembly room of the Eastside Young Leaders Academy (EYCA) in Plaistow, east London. ‘David Cameron’s arrived! He’s in the corridor! He’s nearly here!’ Day three of his leadership, and just the thought of Dave’s presence has the same effect on Tories as Will Young has on teenage girls. Middle-aged charity workers patted their hair, Dave’s female handlers began to herd hacks into ever smaller spaces; across the room our host, Iain Duncan Smith, sat up straighter. A silence, then David Cameron bounced in, his left hand clenched in its trademark fist, his face the usual pink. Bulbs flashed, women clapped, pens scratched.

It didn’t occur to me until a few weeks ago to question homeopathy. Of course it worked. I grew up with it; my aunt Liz was and still is a homeopathic practitioner and for us — my mother, father, aunts, uncles, brother, cousins — calling Liz was the natural reaction to the slightest swollen gland. We weren’t loopy: if things got dangerous, a trained doctor would be summoned but as he tapped and tutted, the aunts would hover, a copy of First Aid Homeopathy in Accidents and Ailments by Dr D.M. Gibson to hand. My childhood memories are full of the taste of little sugary pills — ‘There, open wide, let it dissolve on your tongue’ — and the rhythmic clinking of remedies being beaten into water with a hundred stirs of a silver spoon.

Sir Denis Mahon arrived at The Spectator 40 minutes before he was due to be interviewed. While I scuffed around in search of tape recorders and sensible questions, Britain’s most distinguished collector and historian of Italian art sat in the editor’s office, waiting. Every now and then I looked at him through the door jamb. He stared peacefully into the middle distance with his hands folded in his lap: nearly 100 years and £20 million worth of old man, upholstered in impeccable three-piece pinstripe. Eventually I introduced myself. I want to ask you lots of things, I said, about this government, about how badly they treat art collectors. I gather you’re going to see the Prime Minister. ...

The sky was already murky at 4 p.m. when I locked my bike outside Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. Inside, it was even murkier: wood-panelled corridors stretched off into the gloom, men in grey suits were wedged together, smoking Bensons and drinking bitter. No one looked even slightly like an Arch Priest of the Council of British Druid Orders. At 4:10 I found a separate little bar near the back of the pub. As I walked in, a big man with round shoulders and grey hair stared at me and I saw the corner of a magazine poking out from inside his coat. As I watched, the whole cover slowly emerged: a yellowy-purple watercolour of a fairy, and the title: The Witchtower. ‘Steve?’ I said. He nodded.

On Friday morning I was drinking a cappuccino in the Piazza del Gesu in Naples with my friend Angus. The sky was free from clouds, the streets were free from other tourists, and no one seemed to care that I had parked my car illegally, facing the wrong way in the middle of a busy taxi rank. At 10.30 a group of men with mandolins materialised and started strumming along as a tiny, red-faced woman belted out folk songs. Within seconds they had an audience of more than 100: young women with pushchairs, grandmothers shaped like baked potatoes, men with cashmere cardigans slung carefully over their shoulders. There were at least 20 different colours of quilted jacket, including peach. For half an hour, the crowd sang along happily, clapping and holding their photo-phones above their heads.

At nine in the morning, Cumnor in Oxfordshire looks like the setting for a Miss Marple mystery. Cotswold cottages run around the outside bend of a narrow high street and on the other side a grassy bank rises up to a graveyard. Nothing moves except the tops of fir trees growing among the tombstones. Standing in front of St Michael’s church I can see the roof of the Reverend Keith Ward’s house. Cumnor isn’t quite the sort of parish you’d expect to find the former Regius Professor of Divinity at Oxford, a liberal intellectual whom the Archbishop of Canterbury calls ‘a much loved and admired thinker’. In his book The Case for Religion Keith Ward says that it is imperative that all religions accept that other faiths contain truth too.