Sir Peregrine Worsthorne isn’t much looking forward to his 90th birthday on 22 December. ‘It’s awful,’ he cries. ‘It makes me so angry Diana Athill writing about the joys of old age. My eyes, teeth, heart — everything starts to go. Keeping alive becomes a full-time job. I’m so lucky to have a much younger wife. If I was on my own, I’d crumble. But as they say, it’s better than the alternative.’
Worsthorne is speaking in the high Gothic drawing room of the old rectory in Hedgerley, Buckinghamshire, where he lives with his second wife, the architectural writer Lucy Lambton. Over lunch, he says to Lucy, ‘My brain isn’t working!’ His brain seems highly functional to me, as he reels off anecdotes going right back to the 1920s. The former editor of the Sunday Telegraph, and a journalist since 1946, Worsthorne has been at the heart of things since his pre-war childhood, when his stepfather, Montagu Norman, was Governor of the Bank of England.
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