Diary – 15 February 2003

If diaries are all about name-dropping and indiscretion, and they usually are, perhaps I should say that I had lunch on Tuesday with the Prime Minister at No. 10. This is the sort of thing that no diarist could bear to suppress. On the other hand, the unwritten rules of journalism dictate that I can’t say anything about it. So does my editor at the Sunday Times. What a miserable dilemma. And in the very week when The Spectator asked me to write this diary. I suppose I can at least reveal that we had lamb stew followed by fruit salad; both were simple but good. Presumably the purpose of such meetings, among other things, is to subject us journalists to the Prime Minister’s formidable charm. This is the way the British establishment has traditionally succeeded in unmanning, or unwomanning, the awkward squad; it is also difficult to resist the seduction of smart invitations and the hope of more. It’s almost as bad as the corruption of friendship. I do feel slightly unwomanned, just for the moment, but, like the woman in the song, I will survive.

My other excitement of the week was a local Notting Hill charity quiz dinner for Response International, which helps with medicine and mine-clearing in places like Angola and Chechnya, in the aftermath of war, ‘after the cameras have left’. First prize was the Howitzer Cup, actually a 25mm mortar presented by a brave woman volunteer, who is a colonel in the Territorial Army. Large amounts of shepherd’s pie were cooked by other women volunteers – all very English, somehow. I am pleased and proud to say our table won, beating the powerful Sebastian Faulks team, mainly because we had an unknown champion in David Neuberger, old friend, polymath and judge. Feelings run very high in these charity quizzes, and I am afraid contestants are not always very sporting.