The word sabotage is a genuine “drama picture”. It can conjure machines grinding noisily to a halt, partisans blowing up railway lines, or each of us inexplicably wrecking our own best chances.. It feels shivering, cinematic and rebellious. But sabotage has much humbler roots, in the clatter of a wooden shoe…

I love almost everything that is old. Old books, old times, old manners. One of the few enviable advantages of being British lies not only in how we have managed to preserve old things, but in how we continue to delight in them. We don’t simply store the past; we keep it in circulation, like a favourite chair, endlessly sat in.

There was a time when a social visit began not with a text message or a hopeful knock, but with a small, stiff rectangle. The calling card was both introduction and safeguard — a way to say, “I was here,” without barging into someone’s day. It was etiquette in miniature, a pocket-sized handshake.

Croydon Airport, Southern England, 1923. Aviation was still pretty new, with planes made mostly out of plywood and canvas. Crossing the channel could be done from the deck of a luxury liner, or for a daring few, in a propeller-driven tent, with 2 leather seats and a sense of direction. The pilots were just mechanics with benefits, but they had an understanding and a kinship with their craft. Radios crackling, announcing Ginger was trying to get in touch with Biffo, navigating

Perhaps the greatest barrier to worthwhile communication is that we no longer listen to understand. We listen only to reply. Our ears twitch, our tongues prepare their retorts, and before the sentence has even ended, we are already halfway into our counterpoint. What passes for dialogue is often little more than a polite duel to get one’s point across and be heard. But what if listening was something else? If we approached each other’s words with kinder curiosity, the intent