A MEETING is going to over-run, somewhere today. A meal is going to take longer than it should. A driver is going to lose track of time.

MONTH by month, she took the photographs. In the early months, as she took the pictures, she would cry. Cry because of the infinitely lonely plaint of a wood pigeon in the trees.

Men seem to assume a dishwasher is an extension of a woman.

THE way you answer one simple question defines how old you are, that simple question being “How are you?” or any of its variations, like “How’s life been treating you?”

THE Clintons are not losing. That’s the first important point coming out of the latest primary. Yes, of course, Hillary lost South Carolina. In fact, not to sugar-coat the truth, she was routed in South Carolina.

Cindi, who hasn’t yet hit 40, would never have been part of the cohort of women behind Hillary from the start.

MY father learned all about mistakes at a wedding. Not his own wedding. He and my mother were guests, and to keep her end up, my mother borrowed a fur stole, described by its owner as “coney”.

‘I think,’ she says.

SNOW shovels, big print doorknob hangers and supermarket sandwiches may be the best investments Hillary Clinton will ever make.

ANYONE who has read Alistair Campbell’s eponymous account of the Blair years knows Tony Blair is already in the running for sainthood, if only for his unremitting kindness to and patience with Campbell and the other infighting inadequates who surrounded him during his leadership of New Labour.