Melanie McDonagh

So, Alfie Evans has died. His father, Tom Evans, said on his Facebook page that his little boy had ‘laid down his shield and taken up his wings’... and ‘we are absolutely heartbroken’. So, the judges have got their way; Alder Hey hospital has got its way; the child died on the terms of the authorities, not on those of his parents. Almost certainly, Alfie would have died whatever course had been taken this week. No one disputes the severity of his neurological condition. And indeed, in previous generations, children in Alfie’s conditions would have died long before this; his case is only possible because of medical advances. And obviously, withdrawing life support is not murder... using extraordinary means to sustain life goes beyond the duty of doctors.

So, Tom Evans, Alfie Evans’ father, seems to have conceded defeat after the Court of Appeal ruled that he could not take his child to Italy, where a hospital has agreed to do its best to treat him. He told reporters today: “We got rejected yesterday to go to Italy unfortunately. We could take it further but would it be the right thing to do? So what we do today is have a meeting with the doctors at Alder Hey and we now start asking to go home…it’s all about getting him home”. Will that do for those who know better than the parents what they should be doing to help their son? Yesterday, Lord Justice McFarlane, head of the Court of Appeal judges, said Alfie’s parents were trying to take “one last chance”.

There was a poignant bit of the Telegraph’s coverage of today’s happy event: “Everything we know so far after Duchess of Cambridge gives birth to boy”, it promised. Except that’s it. There is very little more to be said except perhaps the weight, 8lb 7oz – it’s at times like this we all revert to imperial measures – and the speed with which the Duchess left hospital, eight hours after the birth. That’s it. That’s all there is to say, except to remark that Kate’s going home dress with its lace collar was interestingly reminiscent of a dress that Princess Diana wore after one of her births, only hers is red, not blue. And the name. Rarely are so many words expended on an event that requires so few.

There’s a curiously two-faced aspect to the British take on the Commonwealth, wouldn’t you say? On the one hand, there’s justifiable contrition about the treatment of the elderly Windrush generation and a general feeling that the Commonwealth leaders assembled for this week’s summit might be justified in taking Britain to task for its cavalier approach to postwar Caribbean immigrants. On the other, when Commonwealth countries get uppity and show signs of not conforming to the social norms of this country, why, they get very short shrift indeed. There was an ugly little interview this morning on the Today programme which expressed precisely this ambivalence.

This week my daughter, 11, got the equivalent of a whopping scratch card win in the lottery of life; she got into the secondary school of her choice, an outcome partly determined by her being a Catholic, partly by dint of her entirely fortuitous proximity to the school in question. Some of her classmates are also going around punching the air, others, also baptised, aren’t, presumably on the basis that they didn’t live close enough. They’re a bit subdued right now, poor mites; at the age of eleven, they’ve got the sense that things haven’t really worked out for them, unless quite a few of the lucky ones turn down their place. Or in my case, fail to take it up because I’m a bit rubbish dealing with the cross-borough e-admissions site.

It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, to sit in on the meeting today between Oxfam executives and Penny Mordaunt, International Development Secretary, who has got off to a cracking start in her job by giving short shrift to the weaselly equivocations by Oxfam after the sex scandals involving its country director and other staff in Haiti and now Chad. But the intelligent money must be on a MeToo rush of individuals recalling what they’ve seen in other charities, in other countries, on exactly the same lines. My husband worked for a British charity in receipt of lots of US government money during and after the conflict in Kosovo.

In the old days, the Financial Times didn’t do scoops. Indeed, it was so unkeen on being sensationalist, if it did happen to get a story it passed it on to some other paper, and then followed it up. So what, you ask, has come over Lionel Barber, editor of the FT, sending girls out on an undercover gig to discover sexist behaviour at the Presidents Club? Is it some late-life crisis? I mean, of all the editors in the trade, he, and the editor of the Economist, and obv this magazine, have least to worry about circulation, in that theirs are the papers people want to be seen reading. Probably more people carry the Economist than read it; the FT is a kind of accessory in business, like a girl’s handbag. Anyway, it seems that readers agree. If you can afford £2.

Ever willing to exploit my children, I asked them yesterday just how many actual English children there were in their class at school – one’s at primary, the other, secondary. What, English-English, they said reasonably? You mean, both parents, plus born here? Yes, I said, which meant they couldn’t count themselves – they were born in Dublin. They thought about it for a bit. The elder said, counting on his fingers, that five out of 27 were English-English, with another three more half and half. My daughter counted 10 out of 27, if you include pupils from Guernsey and Northern Ireland, which I unwillingly conceded might count as British from some perspectives; a child whose granny is from Sierra Leone counts as English. The rest were a ragbag.

Not surprisingly, feminists lost no time this week weighing in behind Emily Lucinda Cole, a Virgin Trains passenger who took great exception to being addressed by a rail employee 'with that hideously patronising word women shudder at in contexts such as these: ‘honey’'. And indeed, the episode she complained about did suggest that the term wasn’t altogether friendly. When she told her ticket inspector she took exception to the brusque way he checked her ticket (and yes, I’m wondering about that), and that she’d be complaining to the bosses, he told her: 'You go ahead, honey'. He may have been an overworked Virgin employee fed up with middle-class girls getting uppity with him or he may have been a bad tempered so and so. It's difficult to tell.

Is there anything more evil than Dry January as an unchristian abomination and a conspiracy against Baby Jesus?  Unless it’s Veganuary. It’s part, you know, of the war against Christmas and indeed against a sane approach to the seasons. Look around you, folks: this is a bleak month if you cut out decorations, tinsel, candlelight, hot wine punch and saturated carbs, satsumas and pudding. Nature didn’t intend us to be giving things up at this time of year. Giving up drink when it’s grey and cold is a rubbish idea. And doing it is a modern way of screwing up the seasons by extending the New Year’s resolutions idea into New Year, New You programmes to do with diet…bang in the middle of the 12 Days of Christmas.

The Church of England being what it is, it was pretty well inevitable that the new Bishop of London should be a woman and as it happens the woman in question is Sarah Mullally, 55, at present suffragan bishop of Exeter. I spoke to her this morning before Downing Street made the announcement – wouldn’t you just love to know if the PM added her mite? – and the bishop designate gave every impression of being a nice and decent person, and a committed, almost certainly evangelical, Christian. Very much in the mould then of another evangelical, the Archbishop of Canterbury. She’s also a former Chief Nursing Officer who worked in the Department of Health for five years and was educated in a comprehensive (the last, a very good thing).

Thank God for the proprieties. This magazine's editor, Fraser Nelson, rattled a few score Anglicans today when he declared in his Radio 4 newspaper roundup at Broadcasting House (pleasingly paired with the FT’s Lionel Barber, BTW) that Meghan Markle and Prince Harry were to share a bedroom when they stay with the Queen at Sandringham over Christmas. This was on the back of a piece by Rachel Johnson, sister of, in the Mail on Sunday, deploring the fact that Meghan was to glad hand the crowds after the Christmas service, even though she’s only engaged. It was the bedroom-sharing arrangement bit that scandalised me.