Ah, spring! The spring of our frostbitten age. At the Polish Club in London, a wonderful place studded with portraits of Polish patriots who have fought and sacrificed for the West’s freedom. In this beautiful and heroic setting, your High life correspondent gave a speech about what it’s like writing for The Spectator, with some odds and ends about my life in general of 50 years ago. The big surprise turned out to be the turnout. It was packed to the rafters, with 50 or so turned away at the door. This was the work of Lady Belhaven and Stenton, and Basia Hamilton, both Poles, the former’s family massacred by Ukrainians, those nice butchers the EU threatens to go to war with Russia for. (Some threat, some army.)
The sweetness of the past has both a poignancy and a pang. A friend recently told me over lunch that I sound too nostalgic and I should cut it out.
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