Harriet Jean Evans takes a look at the social commentary of the past, and explains why she believes it just doesn't matter.
Our anonymous blogger reflects on her attempts to have a student Christmas... and how she came to the conclusion that home-made is always best.
Gillian Love urges you to vote 'No' to the motion to replace Women's Committee with a 'Gender Equality Committee'.
We were seated at what I was assured was the chef’s table adjacent to the men’s toilets and fairly close to the kitchen. Far from ideal for a Cambridge graduate such as myself but I opted not to protest. Choosing the buffet to start, I delayed the interference of the waitress, whom I can only assume was between the ages of 12 and 15. Geraldine had the BBQ chicken wings to begin. I tried one, and frankly my gentle reader, I fear my palate has been besmirched for the remainder of its privileged days. In a vain attempt to leave my beloved’s car crash of a starter behind, I rose and headed for the buffet. I felt a man condemned as I approached the buffet bar with extreme trepidation but was slightly uplifted at the sight of fresh vegetables and salad. I constructed myself a simple garden salad, dressing it with a creamy Caesar which I spooned from a broken plastic box; a vessel which gave the distinct impression it was an ice-cream tub in a former life. The croutons were soft. When I returned to the table, Geraldine’s plate was being cleared with only two bites from the whole dish, one of which was my own wretched surrender to morbid curiosity. I finished the salad of my own design quite contentedly and my plate was cleared by a different waitress this time. At least 16 years of age.
When the mains arrived, I was in the slightly too conveniently located bathroom. I returned to find my authentic Italian; the word ‘authentic’ being something of a misnomer in Croydon, seafood pizza waiting for me. The base was crisp and edible enough, but the tomato sauce lacked the richness that the menu had promised me. The selection of seafood was rather uninspired and I strongly suspect the prawns had at some point been frozen judging by the way in which they made soggy patches on my pizza wherever they put in an unwelcome appearance. I ate about a quarter of it then gave up. Geraldine had the penne which after sampling it I can only describe as the most unimaginative pasta dish ever conceived by man.
The encore was superb. Delectably smooth vanilla ice cream from the ice cream factory and a topping of all my favourite childhood sweets. Geraldine refused dessert though tried some of mine and was mightily impressed.
Perhaps Mr Winner would care to review for Lifestyle's Food & Drink section? 
Mr Winner would love to if Miss Pennock got in touch 
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