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charm to the Sergeants. Shirley, a wife without a husband, fearful of the flesh, but not short of it, punishes herself with a self-denying diet and runs about in bursts of energetic pointlessness. Smith is the director of the British Film Institute; a grey man, just into his forties, he has been a Fellow of St Anthony’s. On the fringes of smartness without being smart, he has some sort of an important job without marked importance. His publications, on communication theory, supply him with credentials, never fame. He wore rather elegant, or elegantly intended, new clothes; they might have looked elegant on someone. According to a recent poll, Shirley’s portmanteau party is still holding forty-three percent of the votes. Roy Jenkins’ resounding victory at Warrington suggests that he will probably be Prime Minister, should the ‘swing to the centre’ be maintained. Shirley has the unflinching tolerance of a woman who will give you the time of day so long as she never has to alter her clock. When the deputy High Mistress of St Paul’s begged her, almost tearfully, not to destroy the Grammar Schools, it served only to hold her to her guns: enemies are to be appeased, friends denied. The levelled world they claim to want is one in which they would never live without a measure of dissidence. Shirley invited herself to Lagardelle. We were assumed to be flattered. She has the ‘lumping in’ style of the good (and persistent) guest. She brought carefully weighted gifts: English biscuits, marmalade for Stee. One morning she even made his bed. If she winced at luxuries – why did we need two swimming pools? – it was because she feared what others might think if she were found to have wallowed uncritically in them. She was willing, in her calculating heart, to put us down rather than compromise herself in the eyes of those in whose houses she would never seek to be a guest. Politicians of the Left frown at what comforts them and are wary of those with whom they are most at ease. Advocating a society in which they are likely to be less comfortable than at present, their pleasure is to moralise rather than to live. 13.8. 81. I fell out with Shirley over the integrity of the IBA Board. She and Master Smith claimed to know what could have happened better than I knew what actually did. Reiteration of the facts was necessary, with specific detail, before their prejudice – identical with their pride – could be dented. Crusty with the lichen of office, Shirley challenged my account of the part played by Lord Thomson on the old Tory grounds that she had ‘known him for thirty years’ during which he had repulsed 5
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countless opportunities to enrich himself. Did it follow that he was incapable of the intimidation of which I observed him to be guilty? Dislike of losing, or being crossed, need not have anything to do with money. Glorying in being privy to the machinery of appointments, Shirlet and Smith were disinclined to conceive of unworthy motives chez le gratin. Her benevolence is without remorse; I should not care to be at her monitorial mercy. The egotist does only what is best for him; he spares us the prig’s confidence that she knows what is best for others. Patrick and Jilly had been kind to Sarah; Patrick has often played host to me, after tennis in Highgate; we felt an obligation. Four days seemed a long time to talk to strangers. The morning of their scheduled arrival, il tombait des cordes. The house was lachrymose with leaks, the guest flat awash after an uncured deluge from the roof of the little pool. We faced the prospect of an indoor life with outdoor people: the tennis court was the only place where we had expected easy conversation. As they arrived, the weather cleared. They proved excellent guests, as generous in taking as in giving. How mature Tony and Shirley had been and how superficial Patrick was by comparison; yet how much more alive he and Jilly were, and how very much more amusing! P. has now abandoned Maggie Thatcher in whose company, he was peacock-pleased to declare, he had spent a candid hour on the previous Thursday. I recall that he jettisoned Jim Slater with similar abruptness. Thatcher has not succeeded and he will not pretend otherwise. The fun of being a journalist was to be of help to one’s friends; who can help those incapable of helping themselves? Patrick thinks of sixty thousand pounds a year as no more than a decent screw for his ‘young men’. He travels first-class, even to Bordeaux, and likes to be recognised. He was not pleased to be called ‘Mr Patrick’ (his bag being labelled Sergeant, Patrick) in the VIP lounge. Jilly has money of her own and a tongue – made tarter by the South African accent – which Sarah has incited her to use. Jilly has no plans for her own escape from the Highgate doll’s house, but she has subsidised Emma’s. Drink is a happy feature of their diet; Jilly claims to need the sugar to power her forehand; she proves that she has conquered her dependence by limiting it to white wine; it’s the ice, she says, that makes her tipsy. Patrick takes whisky and soda in a beer mug. He was warned by his fond and faithful wife against becoming ‘as fat as an old eunuch’. 6

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charm to the Sergeants. Shirley, a wife without a husband, fearful of the flesh, but not short of it, punishes herself with a self-denying diet and runs about in bursts of energetic pointlessness. Smith is the director of the British Film Institute; a grey man, just into his forties, he has been a Fellow of St Anthony’s. On the fringes of smartness without being smart, he has some sort of an important job without marked importance. His publications, on communication theory, supply him with credentials, never fame. He wore rather elegant, or elegantly intended, new clothes; they might have looked elegant on someone. According to a recent poll, Shirley’s portmanteau party is still holding forty-three percent of the votes. Roy Jenkins’ resounding victory at Warrington suggests that he will probably be Prime Minister, should the ‘swing to the centre’ be maintained. Shirley has the unflinching tolerance of a woman who will give you the time of day so long as she never has to alter her clock. When the deputy High Mistress of St Paul’s begged her, almost tearfully, not to destroy the Grammar Schools, it served only to hold her to her guns: enemies are to be appeased, friends denied. The levelled world they claim to want is one in which they would never live without a measure of dissidence. Shirley invited herself to Lagardelle. We were assumed to be flattered. She has the ‘lumping in’ style of the good (and persistent) guest. She brought carefully weighted gifts: English biscuits, marmalade for Stee. One morning she even made his bed. If she winced at luxuries – why did we need two swimming pools? – it was because she feared what others might think if she were found to have wallowed uncritically in them. She was willing, in her calculating heart, to put us down rather than compromise herself in the eyes of those in whose houses she would never seek to be a guest. Politicians of the Left frown at what comforts them and are wary of those with whom they are most at ease. Advocating a society in which they are likely to be less comfortable than at present, their pleasure is to moralise rather than to live. 13.8. 81. I fell out with Shirley over the integrity of the IBA Board. She and Master Smith claimed to know what could have happened better than I knew what actually did. Reiteration of the facts was necessary, with specific detail, before their prejudice – identical with their pride – could be dented. Crusty with the lichen of office, Shirley challenged my account of the part played by Lord Thomson on the old Tory grounds that she had ‘known him for thirty years’ during which he had repulsed

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