Gstaad
Lord Belhaven and Stenton, a wonderful man and the quintessential English gentleman, died at 93 just before the end of the crappiest of years. But Robin was lucky in a way: no tubes, no hospital beds, not another virus statistic. His widow, Lady Belhaven, gave me the bad news over the telephone, and although she was devastated after a very long and happy marriage, she is very smart and realises that it was a perfect death. He asked for a gin and tonic, went to bed, and never woke up.
Acknowledging the death of others is one thing, accepting one’s own demise quite another. That’s why old men send young men to die in war, a confidence trick perfected after the Napoleonic Wars. Greek and Roman generals led from the front, as did many subsequent kings. Prince Bagration died in the Battle of Borodino, Sir Thomas Picton at Waterloo, and Field Marshal Prince von Blücher, aged 73, had two horses shot from under him while charging to save the day for Wellington. I suppose we live on in those we’ve touched, and they, in turn, live on if they’ve touched us. Death is the force that shows you what you love most and wish most to continue living. Remembering those who have died makes them immortal.
Robin was of a generation that didn’t suffer from PTSD — that’s a medical word for trauma — a term invented by Big greedy Pharma so it can sell expensive medication to people convinced they’re suffering from psychological or chemical wounds. As a child I met many soldiers who had returned home having had horrendous experiences, yet all I remember are the funny things they told me, like my uncle who, having been stabbed in his backside by a panicky Italian Alpini he had captured, drew his pistol, took away the Italian’s stiletto and forced him to dress the wound he had inflicted.
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