Gstaad
I have two special girlfriends, Lynne and Fiona, the ladies who guard The Spectator’s entrance against the outraged #MeToo gels and woke lackeys who occasionally take umbrage against the poor little Greek boy’s scribbling. My guardian angels recently sent me some personal letters posted long ago, which I will eventually answer, especially one from Lady Mary Gaye Curzon, a very old friend, whose beautiful daughter Cressida — a Spectator Notebook contributor — dodged a bullet when Harry Halfwit went Hollywood. Although months in arrears, please accept my apologies, Helen Holland, Mary Ruskin and Anthony Johnson; such are the joys of the mail during and after a pandemic.
Last week in the Bagel I had dinner with Michael Wolff, whose Too Famous, a collection of his essays and columns, has just hit the bookshops. Unfortunately, two females at the table next to us, with horrendously high-pitched annoying voices, made it impossible to hear ourselves, but this is Noo Yawk, and our neighbours sure were Noo Yawkers.
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