Riviera notebook

18 August 2007

The shiny new ‘Vodka Palaces’ lie scattered across the bay of St Tropez like the discarded toys of a spoiled child.

Ah fame — ’tis ever so fleeting but I for one do not miss the barrage of adulation and insanity that was heaped upon me during the Dynasty years. Now I am quite able to go shopping and out and about without being accosted by either paparazzi or eager fans. During the late 1980s some fans were so overenthusiastic that it was impossible even to browse the boutiques without getting asked for autographs. One day I discovered what I thought was a crafty solution. In Edgware Road I bought an all-encompassing Muslim-style burka and with only a slit for my eyes I walked slowly down the stairs of my apartment to hit the shops. Unfortunately the first thing I hit was the ground, as billowing folds of black schmutter became caught between my legs. I tumbled unceremoniously, to the puzzlement of my Arab neighbours, who normally cluster outside my Belgravia residence to have a quick fag. Reclaiming my dignity I clumsily pulled my burka around me and tried to cross the road at Belgrave Square where the cars all seemed to be driven by aspiring Jackie Stewarts. I was unable to see either to the right or left as the eye slits cut off visibility, big-time. Drivers cursed as I stumbled across the street, tripping over my voluminous garb, and I was unable to get a taxi to stop for me (they acted as if I was invisible). I managed to stumble to Duke Street, then gave up covered in sweat and totally exhausted. The burka went to a charity shop and I felt pity for the poor women forced to wear this ungainly mediaeval garment: but I have to admit that nobody recognised me.