Around 15 years or so ago I was fast asleep late in the morning when I got an ear-splitting telephone call from Greece. It was Vicki Woods, a Telegraph writer, and she sounded anxious. If memory serves, and it does because she subsequently wrote a piece about it which made it into The Week, the conversation went as follows: ‘Oh, hello, my name’s Vicki Woods, we’ve met a couple of times… ah, at The Spectator.’ Me: ‘Have we made love?’ Vicki: ‘Er — no! Ha-ha — absolutely not! But I’m ringing because…’ Me: ‘Why not?’ Vicki: ‘Well, I’m not your type, ha-ha, too old for you for one thing; anyway, the reason I’m ringing is…’ Me: ‘How old are you?’ Vicki: ‘Er, forty-seven, but anyway, I’m ringing because…’ — Me: ‘Forty-seven. My God! Forty-seven! Get off the phone at once.’ So she did.
Yes, I know, it sounds terrible but at the time I thought it rather funny.
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