Here in Barcelona, it's the architects who built the buildings that made the city iconic who are the objects of admiration - not a bunch of half-witted monarchs.

Blakes Hotel in South Kensington was a particular favourite of mine during what I affectionately think of as my Restless Years.

I don't really care what people tell children - when you believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, one more fib won't hurt. But I am infuriated by the growing notion, posited in some touchy-feely quarters, that all women are, or can be, beautiful.

Women, more often than not, do things which aren't remotely relaxing but are all about preening, which is just another sort of work.

Being a monarchist - saying that one small group is born more worthy of respect than another - is just as warped and strange as being a racist.

A wedding is a funeral which masquerades as a feast. And the greater the pageantry, the deeper the savagery.

The truth of the matter is, beauty is a specific thing, rare and fleeting. Some of us have it in our teens, 20s and 30s and then lose it; most of us have it not at all. And that's perfectly okay. But lying to yourself that you have it when you don't seems to me simple-minded at best and psychotic at worst.