We were discussing the economic arguments of the early 1980s when I had a Proustian madeleine moment. I remembered my first White Lady. It must have been in late 1981. In those days, God help me, I was a self-proclaimed Tory Wet, agreeing with Ian Gilmour that we were heading straight for the rocks. Ian Gow, the most Thatcherite of the Thatcherites, the greatest of all PPSs, an altogether wonderful fellow, summoned me to dinner at the Cavalry Club in an attempt to recall me to the paths of righteousness.
To dry out Wets, Ian believed in homeopathic medicine. We started with a White Lady: my first. And another one. And… I lost count. All good drink is moreish, especially white ladies. By the time that we levered ourselves out of the armchairs to toddle into dinner, we were both sloshed.
Ian was one of that rare species, a Tory Wykehamist.
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