To London for a brief visit to meet Spectator readers, as nice a reason as I can think of for getting on an airplane, except for an assignation with Rebecca Hall, my latest obsession among the fairer sex. Our digs in Old Queen Street remind me a bit of my schooldays, not that The Spectator’s building is ivy-covered and red-brick, but more in the sense of a mystical communion with the past.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
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