My husband and I are in New York, where everyone is talking about the approaching Trump-Biden debate. Well, I’ll be astonished if it deserves the name. True debate seems to be a thing of the past in the US as much as in the UK, with both sides of any argument (assisted dying, the Israel/Gaza war, immigration) shouting loudly but not listening. Civilised friends of ours tell us their university-student children refuse to engage in debate about gender identity. It’s ‘You’re just wrong, Dad. You don’t get it. That’s all.’
The Americans are mad about The Great American Baking Show, the stateside Bake Off, so I have an ego-boosting time being stopped for selfies and a less flattering one being asked by women, young and old, if Paul Hollywood is as nice as he is good looking, and is he single? Yes and no, in that order.
On a glorious spring day we walk the High Line. The beds are full of aquilegia and alliums, phlox and catmint, with trees, planted maybe ten years ago, bursting into leaf. White-blossomed Cornus arches overhead and works of art pop up every few hundred yards – all there for a short sojourn, like our Fourth Plinth sculptures in Trafalgar Square. The overall design is modern and satisfying, with some old railway tracks still visible in parts and the planting both ordered and informal at the same time. There are areas for sitting and gossiping, and views over Manhattan in all directions.
The High Line ends at Chelsea Market, which is heaving with tourists and New Yorkers. We had lunch in Dickson’s, a carnivore’s dream. Half-a-dozen enthusiastic young butchers, their aprons bloodied, provide the theatre at the end of the restaurant, butchering carcasses hanging on a rail. They’re so skilful it’s mesmerising. One proudly tells me that they waste nothing.
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