It’s less than seven years since Wendy and I wandered along Hollywood Boulevard, comparing it—not entirely favourably—to Blackpool’s promenade.

It’s astonishing, distressing, and tragic to think that, at the time of writing, it’s now in a mandatory evacuation zone due to wildfires. The situation as a whole will doubtless be worse by the time this is published.

Ryan Broderick recently shared the observation that ‘climate change will manifest as a series of disasters viewed through phones with footage that gets closer and closer to where you live until you’re the one filming it.’

LA may be thousands of miles away, but the familiarity makes it feel closer—and perhaps that’s the apt interpretation of the word ‘closer’ for these purposes. It’s hard not to feel a scintilla of guilt about the way that trips like ours might have ultimately contributed to the destruction, just as they contributed to the touristic development of the area in the first place. Flygskam is a complicated emotion.

Britain’s planning laws are often described as slightly mad, unfit for purpose and antiquated. But this nugget, reported by Phineas Harper in The Guardian and highlighted by John Naughton, is quite delightful:

British domestic architecture has also been shaped by idiosyncratic rules that contribute to its poor environmental credentials. For instance, in many parts of the UK, homes that face each other at the rear are required to be built 21 metres apart. This large distance means that instead of clustering buildings together around cool courtyards or shady streets, as is common in hotter climates, many homes in new neighbourhoods are directly exposed to the sun.

The 21-metre rule is, according to the Stirling prize-winning architect Annalie Riches, a bizarre hangover from 1902, originally intended to protect the modesty of Edwardian women. The urban designers Raymond Unwin and Barry Parker walked apart in a field until they could no longer see each other’s nipples through their shirts. The two men measured the distance between them to be 70ft (21 metres), and this became the distance that is still used today, 120 years later, to dictate how far apart many British homes should be built.

It was covid that drove me off Facebook, but it perhaps wasn’t until nearly five years later that it left my mind entirely.

Wendy and I were writing Christmas cards last month, and I—perhaps not fully embracing the Christmas spirit—commented that it was a risky business, as some of the families we were wishing well might have divorced in the years since we last spoke.

‘No, they definitely haven’t,’ said Wendy. ‘I’m friends with them on Facebook.’

It simply hadn’t entered my mind that there might still be a social media connection between us. Facebook is no longer in my thoughts.

And yet yesterday’s news that its founder has chosen to remove fact-checkers caught my attention. I was even more surprised to see the company had changed its ’hateful content policy’ to permit ‘allegations of mental illness … based on gender or sexual orientation’, among many other unpleasant changes.

It baffles me that this makes for an attractive proposition. If I were seeking information, I wouldn’t choose to do so on a website that is explicitly designed to make it easier to spread misinformation. If I wanted to socialise, I wouldn’t do so in a place where people are free to hurl around stigmatising accusations of psychiatric illness. And if I wanted to advertise, I wouldn’t do so on a platform where my ads would appear alongside any of this vitriolic effluent.

But… I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority, and it’s not like my objections have any meaningful impact anyway given that I don’t use it in the first place.

It was CP Scott who said that ‘comment is free, but facts are sacred’. It seems nothing is sacred at Facebook.

This is the clocktower at Wallington. Wallington is one of a number of North East National Trust properties—perhaps most of them—with which I have strange mental associations, having worked on a ward named after it. But that needn’t detain us today.

Today’s scintilla of curiosity is found in the National Trust’s insistence, in signage and even on their website, that the thing pictured above is the ‘clocktower’—one word—not the ‘clock tower’, as I’d have written it. So let’s crack open the Oxford English Dictionary and see what’s going on there.

Except… there’s not much to say. ‘Clock tower’ is only listed as two words, with one example where it has been hyphenated. ‘Clocktower’ doesn’t appear. And in it’s National Heritage List for England Grade 1 entry, the structure is referred to as the ‘Clock Tower Gate’

So why the insistence on ‘clocktower’? I think it might be because they are often using it—perhaps even in all the examples I’ve seen—as part of a compound phrase, like ‘clocktower cafe’. This seems like a reasonable bit of linguistic tidying which even I can forgive… even if it’s not absolutely correct.

In 2008, about £1 in every £25 spent in a UK supermarket was spent in Lidl or Aldi. Today, it’s closer to £1 in every £5. These discounters have seen enormous growth, driven by a complex web of interacting underlying forces.

What is undeniable is that shoppers have traded choice for value. An average Lidl or Aldi branch carries 7,500 different products compared with 30,000 at your average Tesco or Sainsbury’s. Many people would rather pay less than have more product choice.

The big supermarkets, meanwhile, have tried all sorts of strategies to bridge the gap—attempting to offer full ranges while squeezing costs. It hasn’t really worked, hence their loss of market share.

You can’t have choice and value: they’re mutually exclusive, because choice begets inefficiency and waste.

Sixteen years ago, I wrote:

Gordon Brown has a fascinating plan for the NHS: Increase patient choice, whilst simultaneously driving the cost of healthcare down to deliver better ‘value for money’. The plan is fascinating primarily because its two aims are utterly contradictory.

Yesterday, Wes Streeting told the BBC that he wants to:

make the NHS easier and more convenient to use, to give patients more choice, to get rid of the waste and inefficiency we see in the NHS.

It’s hard to grasp what’s hard to grasp. Choice requires oversupply, which is—by definition—inefficient.

I suspect what Streeting intends to do is allow patients to choose between location and speed, in an effort to spread demand. If you don’t mind travelling a little further, you might get seen quicker. There is a logical efficiency argument to that, and the process already exists in the NHS, but is perhaps under-promoted.

The problem is that it’s bad for the population’s health. Julian Tudor Hart proposed the Inverse Care Law decades ago, describing how the geographical areas of greatest medical need have the poorest supply of medical care. These populations also tend to be the least mobile, and therefore the least able to travel to shortcut the waiting lists.

Therefore, in the name of efficiency, one might well end up filling the available capacity with the most mobile and least needy patients. This might move the needle on the Government’s pledge to cut waiting lists, but it will exacerbate health inequalities.

What I haven’t quite figured out yet is whether this approach is intended to provide political cover for bolder moves to tackle inequalities, or whether this is the only game in town. Either seems plausible. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.

Hotel room art is often very boring, and never moreso than in a Travelodge or Premier Inn, who seem to buy identical pictures by the tonne.

I enjoy it when hotels try something bolder—even, as in this example, when it’s not quite to my taste. This particular hotel room was painted and furnished in millennial grey, which always gives me slight ‘institution’ vibes. This very bold choice did a lot to offset that impression.

This novel had been much-recommended—but I will admit that I approached it with a degree of reticence given that it extends to 656 pages, and my edition weighs just shy of a kilogram. Reading shouldn’t be this much of a workout.

The novel is set over the course of a year, beginning in the spring of 2021. The main character is Campbell Flynn, a wealthy and privileged academic art historian who is also a sort of public intellectual, appearing on Newsnight and the like to pontificate on all sorts. The heart of the story is about the impact on his life of one of his students, Milo Manghasa.

Campbell grew up in working-class Glasgow; but an Oxbridge degree, a move to London and a marriage into an aristocratic family perhaps softened his zeal for truly left-wing reform. Outspoken Milo, who has a fierce intellect, lives his left-wing views—which beguiles Campbell, even as he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.

This book has been called ‘Dickensian’ for its ‘state of the nation’ portrayal of Britain. Like Dickens, it has a sprawling cast list which I slightly struggled to keep up with; but also like Dickens, the quality of the writing kept me steaming on through regardless.

It doesn’t, however, have the humour of Dickens, and I missed that element. There are witty and biting turns of phrase, but no real comic relief. There were also no real twists or turns in the story—this was a novel of slow, relentless destruction, which contributed to its heaviness.

All of which is to say… I really enjoyed this, and I’m glad I stuck with it, but I’m not sure it earned its length.

Wendy reckons that this Christmas has been the Christmas of wicker reindeer… though neither of us are really sure why they’ve been so prolific.

I was reminded recently that male reindeer shed their antlers in winter—so, I guess, wicker reindeer are almost exclusively female.