The curious life of a foreign minister’s wife

The Polish constitution delineates no role for the foreign minister’s wife. In fact, the foreign minister’s wife is not mentioned in Polish state documents of any kind. Nevertheless, there are times when, as the Polish foreign minister’s wife, I find that I have no choice but to bear witness to great historical events. On the Friday following the British election, the Polish foreign minister – better known as an occasional Spectator diarist – was informed that the new British Foreign Secretary planned to visit Poland on his first trip abroad. Because we had planned to spend that weekend at our country house, north-west of Warsaw, and because there is a nearby airport, it was suggested that the official talks be organised there. This was accepted, and an extraordinary process was set in motion. Men from the secret services of both nations started snooping around on Saturday. The caterers arrived early on Sunday, bearing extra coffee machines. The ministry thoughtfully sent a van packed with flag stands so that we could display the Union Jack and the Polish flag on the front porch. Finally, just as preparations were concluding, the Rt. Hon. David Lammy arrived in a Jaguar. Talks were held. Walks were taken. A press conference took place. My role was clear: to take pictures from the terrace and enjoy the excellent lunch.

The next day I flew to Washington, where the change of climate was abrupt, in many senses of the word. In Poland we had clear skies and a bit of breeze. In Washington, the humidity is so thick and the heat so intense – 38 degrees one day, 39 the next – that the white marble buildings shimmer like mirages in the desert. On the day before an assassin tried to shoot former president Donald Trump, the weather was so oppressive that it felt like a political metaphor: a wall of heat rising to engulf the city.