It is impossible to think about anything else. Her death was more of a shock than a surprise. She had, alas, outlived the quality of life, so the immediate sadness is more appropriate to the human condition than to her own passing. But when such a mighty figure moves on, the world seems diminished.
Margaret Thatcher and drink: not an easy juxtaposition. She took little interest in any of life’s pleasures except work and she had little sense of humour. ‘Humour’ derives from the medieval humours, so a sense of humour ought to imply a balanced personality. There was nothing balanced about her: just as well. We should all give thanks for the lack of balance which enabled her to strike so relentlessly in pursuit of her objectives, all of vital national importance.
But telling her a joke was a hazardous business. You almost needed to signal that one was coming, as in leaving a motorway. Once, she was talking about Robert Conquest. He is a great man, who tried to alert the West to the horrors of the Soviet system when the likes of Eric Hobsbawm were still justifying it. Even so, Mrs T was banging on. To divert the flow, I said: ‘You know that Bob’s just got married for the fourth time?’ Puzzled expression: what had that to do with the Gulag? ‘And one of his friends said, “What are you doing marrying again at your age?” Bob replied: “I thought I’d have one for the road.”’ Not even a hint of a chuckle. Time to rejoin the motorway: ‘Of course, Prime Minister, you’re absolutely right…’
When nominally on holiday, she might be persuaded to take a hearty if brief interest in other people’s leisure activities.
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