I hope David Cameron will find time to drink the odd good bottle

Back in 1989, a most unsatisfactory fellow called General Aoun started a civil war around Beirut in the hope of seizing control of the Maronite Christian portions of Lebanon. He ended up with political wreckage, which has endured.

During the fighting, I spent a few days cut off in the British ambassador’s summer residence, watching the battle going on below. We felt safer than we probably were, partly because Pauline Ramsay, the ambassador’s enchanting wife, tried to turn the crisis into a house party. So British: so best of British.

We watched, helpless, as one block of flats was regularly hit by shells. It had obviously been well built, because although it twisted like an architectural pirouette, it did not collapse. Then there was a ceasefire. We went down with water, food and medical supplies. I was not looking forward to the sight.