I am in Charleston, South Carolina, whither we fly to escape the northern winter, which so far has not been too frigid. Charleston is anything but frigid. Last week we attended a cocktail party and I overheard two elegant ladies who were discussing a gentleman glimpsed across the candlelit courtyard. One remarked on his good looks, whereupon the other replied: ‘I think I was married to him once.’ Pure Charleston.
But our dog, Vicky, has been severely disappointed by the winter. The rest of the USA seems to be buried in snow, but on Cape Cod we have seen scarcely three inches, and Victoria adores the snow, believing it to be sent for her particular pleasure. By the time we fled south our harbour, which normally freezes over in January, remained stubbornly unfrozen, while our lawn was a galaxy of snowdrops.
Snowdrops once prompted the angriest letter I think I have ever received as an author.
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