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I’ll miss the spectacle of humanity that is the London Marathon this year – I’m away seeing family. The 30,000 used to run past my doorstep when I lived in a dodgy block of flats near Tower Bridge, which did make nipping over the road for milk quite a challenge. And I’ll never forget the year we stood on the final corner outside Buckingham Palace, where we saw one stricken runner lifted to his feet by fellow competitors, who carried him 200 metres over the finishing line.
I was cheered to hear that Nigella Lawson is returning to our screens, her first solo cooking show here since the agonisingly public breakdown of her marriage to Charles Saatchi – and the drug revelations used to try to trash her character. All for the crime of being grabbed by the throat, remember.