Tom Hodgkinson

Dec 4, 2024 | theoldie.co.uk | Tom Hodgkinson

"The Oldie is an incredible magazine - perhaps the best magazine in the world right now" Graydon Carter, founder of Air Mail and former Editor of Vanity Fair Give The Oldie for Xmas and save 50% Subscribe Regulars | By Tom Hodgkinson Whatever happened to the promise of self-driving cars? As I pedal my mousy way across London every day, I peer with interest at the various vehicles on the road.

Oct 24, 2024 | theoldie.co.uk | Tom Hodgkinson

In the Middle Ages, towns and cities across Europe would compete with each other to build the biggest church. This same competitive spirit has overtaken London today, but now it’s all about the kitchen. My friends’ houses look fairly modest from the outside, but penetrate more deeply and a vast, echoing atrium will open out at the back.

Oct 1, 2024 | theoldie.co.uk | Tom Hodgkinson

A few weeks ago, I had a little scamper around Palazzo Davanzati, a 14th-century merchant’s house in Florence. The Davanzatis bought the house in 1580 from a family of wealthy wool merchants who’d had it built 200 years earlier. On the first floor is the great hall, a gigantic room for business meetings with absurdly high ceilings. It makes Crispin Odey’s old wood-panelled meeting room in Mayfair look like a council Portakabin. I was struck by the first and second floor.

Sep 30, 2024 | theoldie.co.uk | Tom Hodgkinson

Wordsworth may be known as a nature poet. But one of his loveliest pieces is Composed upon Westminster Bridge from 1802, which sings of the joy of man’s creations. It’s actually less self-conscious than his quite tedious stuff about mountains and lakes. The poet stands still on Westminster Bridge early one morning and drinks in the urban scene: Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky.

Aug 20, 2024 | theoldie.co.uk | Tom Hodgkinson

This year, it’s a summer in the city for Mrs Mouse and me. No foreign holidays. No fretting about suitcases being overweight. No early starts. No shuffling through Stansted Airport like condemned pigs. No shovelling out untold piles of cash on swordfish steaks, questionable pizzas and strange beer. No lining up outside the Uffizi, no embarrassed pointing at things in charming delis as the only Italian I know is ‘Due birre, per favore.’ No boredom on beaches. There’s a clue in the name.