My lunch with Fergie’s body double

There is nothing much I can add to what Daniel Johnson and Charles Moore wrote about the great Paul Johnson, except that I shall miss his annual summer visits to Gstaad, where we walked for hours on mountain trails and I had the opportunity to take in some of his best bon mots. He knew everything and could tell a story like no one else. On the occasions when Lady Carla was with us – she is Italian and never draws a breath – Paul would not slow down for her to catch up but every five minutes or so he’d bellow ‘Is that so?’ and then bash on. My Alexandra particularly liked him and asked me time and again why I didn’t have more friends like Paul.

The answer is obvious. There are not many Paul Johnsons around. There is one, however, who is a polymath like the departed, and even has red hair.