A triumph: Nederlands Dans Theater 1, at Sadler’s Wells, reviewed

Yes, yes, I know. You’ve had your fill of David Attenborough’s jeremiads, you’ve heard enough already about climate change catastrophe. You’ve got the message, ordered the electric car and solar panels: now can we talk for a moment about something less unthinkably apocalyptic?

But the quiet triumph of Figures in Extinction [1.0] is to make the crisis seem freshly urgent and emotionally engaging. The first of three scheduled collaborations between the Canadian choreographer Crystal Pite and Complicité’s theatrical magician Simon McBurney, presented by Nederlands Dans Theater 1, it focuses on endangered or defunct species – a subject first addressed balletically in 1988 by David Bintley in his whimsical Still Life at the Penguin Café, but treated here with a darker sense of doom and a richer, angrier poetry.

The format is deceptively simple – an animated picture book in which 22 neutrally clad dancers impersonate everything from a melting glacier and a spider orchid to a herd of caribou, a shoal of smooth handfish and a selection of magnificent lonely specimens such as Bachman’s warbler and the Pyrenean Ibex (both irretrievably gone).

It may sound like something more suited to the wall of a primary-school classroom, but Pite is too wise an artist to let it get sanctimonious – the point is as much to celebrate the grace and beauty of these phenomena as to mourn their passing, and the effect is light-footed rather than heavy-handed, and all the more potent for being achieved without hi-tech trickery.

Only the broadcasting over the Tannoy of McBurney’s six-year-old daughter asking naive questions about why the birdies are flying away struck a needlessly sentimental note: the tragedy in the annihilation of these exquisite creatures had been more poetically rendered in Pite’s delicately imaginative choreography. Much more abrasively effective is the brash intrusion of a climate-change denier, blaming it all on God and bleating about the loss of his personal liberties – a figure wittily characterised by Pite as a hyperactive attention-craving jester, attended by a pair of idiotically cavorting rabbits.

Two other slighter pieces preceded this special treat: Gabriela Carrizo’s La Ruta exudes a surreal film-noir atmosphere: it’s a foggy night at a bus shelter on a lonely road, where inexplicable disconnected things are happening to a variety of people who would be better off tucked up in bed. Eventually there’s some sort of electrical storm and a lunatic runs amok, stoning everyone in sight to death with a huge boulder before being transfigured into a totem. The significance of all this may remain deliberately elusive, but it’s an intriguing exercise, stylishly staged and performed with vivid conviction.

More conventionally satisfying is Gods and Dogs by Jiri Kylian, one of a trove of works he’s created for a company that he ran for nearly a quarter of a century. He describes it as ‘unfinished’ and an exploration of the terrain between normality and insanity, but it seems refreshingly low on concept and high on polish, charged with Kylian’s facility for making dance that is both virile and supple, elegant and muscular. Drawing on one of Beethoven’s Op. 18 string quartets and set against a shimmering curtain of gold beads, it was danced with passion by a cast of eight led by Pamela Campos and Cesar Faria Fernandes.

Rivalled in Europe only by Rambert, Nederlands Dans Theater’s three troupes have amassed a superb record over half a century for presenting modern dance in all its guises, from neo-balletic classicism to upside-down inside-out weirdness. This was a typically strong programme showcasing both its broad repertory and its marvellously resourceful dancers at their best. 

Reykjavik Open

This year’s Reykjavik Open attracted a record turnout of more than 400 players. The Icelanders’ affinity for chess is well established, and the Harpa Conference Centre is a beautiful playing hall looking over the waterfront. At the top of the seedings was Ukrainian luminary Vasyl Ivanchuk, but first place went to the affable Swedish grandmaster Nils Grandelius. He took the lead in the penultimate round.

Abhijeet Gupta-Nils Grandelius
Reykjavik Open, April 2023

53…Kf4 is tempting, but 54 Nb7 e4 55 Nc5 Bf5 56 Nxe4! secures a draw as the bishop can never force White’s king out from the a1-corner. In what follows, the sacrifice of knight for e-pawn is carefully avoided. 53…Bd5! 54 Nb5 Kf5 55 Nc7 Bb7 56 Nb5 Kf4 57 Kb3 e4 58 Nc3 e3 59 Ka4 Ke5 60 Kxa5 Bf3 61 Kb4 Kd4 The a-pawn has proved to be a useful decoy. 62 Nb5+ Kd3 63 Nc3 Bc6 64 Kb3 Bd7 65 Kb2 Be6 Zugzwang! Moving the knight allows the pawn to advance, so White resigns

A brilliancy by English grandmaster Simon Williams, known to his fans as the ‘Ginger GM’.

Simon Williams-Anastasiya Rakhmangulova
Reykjavik Open, March 2023

1 d4 d5 2 c4 c6 3 cxd5 cxd5 4 Nc3 Nf6 5 f3 e6 6 e4 dxe4 7 fxe4 Nc6 The immediate 7…Bb4! was stronger, because 8 Bd3 loses a pawn after Nxe4! 9 Bxe4 Bxc3+ 10 bxc3 Qh4+ 8 Nf3 Bb4 9 Bd3 Ba5 Rather slow, but better moves were hard to come by. 9…Nxd4? 10 Nxd4 Qxd4 11 Bb5+ wins the queen. 9…O-O? runs into a textbook ‘Greek gift’ bishop sacrifice. 10 e5 Nd5 11 Bxh7+ Kxh7 12 Ng5+ Kg8 (12…Kg6 13 h4 is no better) 13 Qh5 Re8 14 Qxf7+ Kh8 15 Qh5+ Kg8 16 Qh7+ Kf8 17 Qh8+ Ke7 18 Qxg7 mate. 10 e5 Nd5 11 O-O It is always worth considering if the opponent’s threats can be ignored. Here, fast development is easily worth a pawn (or three!). Nxc3 12 bxc3 Bxc3 13 Rb1 h6 13…O-O 14 Bxh7+ still could not be permitted. Black wisely declines the chance to grab two more pawns. After 13…Bxd4+ 14 Kh1 Bxe5 15 Nxe5 Nxe5 16 Bb5+ Bd7 17 Qe2 Bxb5 18 Qxb5+ Nd7 19 Ba3! White is winning, despite the lost pawns. Black still cannot castle, and with Rb1-d1, and/or Qb5-h5 coming the threats are too numerous. 14 Ba3 a5 A plausible try, preparing Bc3-b4 to renew the possibility of kingside castling. 15 Qa4 Bd7 16 Rxb7 Nxd4 (see diagram top right) 17 Nxd4 A stunning queen sacrifice. Bxa4 18 Nxe6 The beautiful point. All of White’s pieces play a role in what follows, e.g. 18…Qxd3 19 Re7# or 18…fxe6 19 Bg6#. 19 Nxg7 mate is threatened, and the queen is attacked as well. Qh4 19 Rfxf7 The threat is Rf7-e7+, and 19…Qe1+ comes to nothing: 20 Bf1 Bd4+ 21 Kh1 wins. Bb4 20 Rf8+ If 20…Rxf8 21 Bg6+ so Black resigns

I cried twice: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry reviewed

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry is an excellent adaptation of Rachel Joyce’s bestselling novel (2012) about a retired old fella who traverses England on foot in the belief he can save a friend dying of cancer. It could have been twee or sentimental (that was the fear) but instead it is spare and restrained and while there are occasional jarring moments it is still wonderfully tender and full of feeling. I cried, possibly twice, but I don‘t think it was three times, whatever anyone might say.

The film is directed by Hettie Macdonald (Normal People) with a screenplay by Joyce and it stars Jim Broadbent in a role that has ‘Jim Broadbent’ written all over it even if Timothy Spall could have had a crack at it, to be fair. Broadbent plays Harold while his wife, Maureen, is played by Penelope Wilton, who is also inevitable casting of the kind that’s ideal. Harold and Maureen live in suburban Devon with net curtains and unironic china dogs and the peach carpets she seems to vacuum daily (a Miele; wise choice). Nothing is spelled out – the script is astutely bare – but we understand that the marriage is grimly frigid and has suffered from what hasn’t been said down the years.

Then, one morning, Harold receives a letter from his old workmate, Queenie (Linda Bassett). She’s in a hospice in Berwick-upon-Tweed and is saying goodbye. He writes a postcard in reply, walks to one postbox, then the next, then decides to keep on walking, he doesn’t know why. As long as he keeps walking, Queenie will live, he thinks. He’ll save her, although, of course, he is actually saving himself, even if it’s not something he could ever consciously recognise. It’s all very Jungian.

He is ill-equipped. It’s a distance of about 600 miles and he has no map or phone and his shoes are flimsy. You may well break out in sympathy blisters. He calls Maureen from public phone boxes. She has a sharp tongue, can’t help herself. ‘You never walk. The only time you walk is to the car… have you been drinking?’ Released from his own passivity, Harold is waking up to life. He approaches a farmhouse for a glass of water. ‘I had no idea water was so nice,’ he says as he gulps it down. OK, that does sound twee. Impossible not to make it sound twee on paper. But on screen it’s so deftly handled it’s subtle and touching.

He meets people on his journey. Some affect him. He affects others. With faith and redemption as its themes, there may be a religious aspect. He attracts fellow pilgrims while a Slovakian woman washes his battered feet. Jesus or Jung, take your pick.

The one thing that’s certain is that this is an incredibly beautiful film to look at. Woods and streams and fields and plump blackberries are gorgeously photographed. It makes you long to visit England even though you live here. Harold is a man in turmoil – why wasn’t he a less timid father to his son? – and one of the problems with book adaptations is: how do you show that internal world? Macdonald directs with precision and flair and also an eye for reflecting Harold’s state of mind in the weather. 

There are a few flaws. Queenie is severely underwritten, and some of Harold’s encounters aren’t entirely convincing. But Broadbent is a wonder, so real and sincere it doesn’t feel like acting. He can do in a single reaction shot what might otherwise take 20 script pages, and Wilton equals him. As I can’t recall being that charmed by the novel, this may even be one of those rare instances where the film is better than the book.

John Gielgud and Richard Burton’s fraught, botched, triumphant Hamlet

In 1963 two Hamlets went into production: one directed by Laurence Olivier, the other by John Gielgud. The situation had been engineered by Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole. The story goes that while shooting the film Becket, Burton and O’Toole had decided they should each play the Prince under either Olivier or Gielgud and they tossed a coin over who would get which director. O’Toole got Olivier; Burton got Gielgud.

Both productions – booze-drenched affairs – went ahead, but the Hamlet that became a showbiz legend was Burton’s doomed Dane.

Burton looked up to Gielgud. He had played Hamlet a decade before, and in it he copied Gielgud’s word elongation (‘In a dreeeeam of passion’). Gielgud, for his part, was keen to stage something for the 1964 Shakespeare quartercentenary and liked the poetic, dark pessimism of the starry Welshman. As director, he decided that his brilliant new concept for Hamlet was… no concept. No tights (good move; Burton hated them), no decor, nothing. It was to be staged to look as if it was the last run-through before the dress rehearsal. The largely American cast was invited to wear anything – pyjamas and bikinis were ruled out but otherwise it was come as you like.

The show opened on Broadway at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre after previewing in Canada. What became known as the ‘Liz and Dick’ show thoroughly upstaged the play. The police closed off roads but the kettled fans broke free and chased the stars’ limo. Taylor and Burton were at peak fame having recently filmed Cleopatra, an insane epic of exceeded budgets, lawsuits, adultery and diamond shopping. (Taylor famously had a donkey’s appetite for carats.) The pair tied the knot – it was her fifth marriage – during the run. When Burton said Hamlet’s Act Three line, ‘I say we will have no more marriages,’ he got a great round of applause.

The fraught, botched production of Hamlet is now the subject of a new play at the National Theatre called The Motive and the Cue (taken from Hamlet’s line about the Player King: ‘What would he do,/ Had he the motive and the cue for passion/ That I have?’) starring Mark Gatiss as Gielgud, Johnny Flynn as Burton and Tuppence Middleton as Taylor. It is directed by Hollywood favourite Sam Mendes. 

Gielgud turned 60 during the original project and was the epitome of the old school of acting. His mellifluous voice, shimmering with emotion and delivered with what one critic called a ‘parsonical quiver’, was famous. Burton’s voice – a spine-tingling poetic rumble of shifting coal slag – was more rugged, more 1960s, and no less adored. Gielgud had encouraged Burton’s first Hamlet in the 1950s and he was a bit unhappy about it. In one of his famous gaffes, he called at Burton’s dressing room as he was getting out of costume and said: ‘Shall I wait until you’re better?… I mean ready?’

For source material about the show, Jack Thorne has used verbatim conversation from the rehearsals secretly recorded with a tape machine smuggled in a briefcase, von Stauffenberg-style, by the actor Richard L. Sterne (playing a bit part) who typed up Gielgud and Burton’s long private meeting and later produced a book based on their exchanges. William Redfield, the actor playing Guildenstern, also published a book, Letters from an Actor, consisting of incisive, bitchy epistles about the awkward rehearsal process.

Part of the problem was that Gielgud knew by heart every single line of the play thus unsettling the cast. Burton was, of course, sloshed from beginning to end. (A famous Burton cocktail recipe of the day was ‘First take your 21 tequilas…’ ) Liz Taylor – who became a fond stage groupie – nursed him tenderly but was not always great for his morale, saying teasing things to the cast such as: ‘Does the burnt-out Welshman know his lines?’ He didn’t.

Gielgud was prone to saying what he really thought accidentally: ‘Really splendid tonight, Richard… The entire section we spoke of from “To be or not to be” through to the nunnery scene was excellent, excellent – I almost liked it.’ Burton, an actor perhaps temperamentally unsuited to the part of a dithering Dane, listened very politely but had his own views. ‘John, dear, you are in love with pronouns but I am not.’ 

Thorne’s play features Janie Dee, perhaps the most experienced member of the cast. She is playing Eileen Herlie (1918-2008), an actress of Glaswegian origin who was cast as Hamlet’s mother Gertrude despite only being seven years older than Burton. Olivier had phoned her saying: ‘Eileen, we are going to do this with Freud’s Oedipal complex in mind.’ She said: ‘Oh, what a good idea, Larry.’ Then she hung up, called a friend and asked: ‘What’s an Oedipal complex?’ When she played the part again, Gielgud privately described her and the man playing Claudius as looking like ‘an ex-croupier from Monte Carlo who has eloped with a fat landlady’.

‘Eileen Herlie is somebody we should know about,’ argues Janie Dee. ‘Eileen had already played Gertrude. She’d been rightly much praised for the part and her experience of working with Olivier was very good. She didn’t really need to do it again. Any problems between Burton and Gielgud are really painful to her in our play. She wants to make sure nobody gets above themselves. We get to see what really goes on in a rehearsal room – and of course there’s lots of conflict. But I can’t reveal more!’

Did she ever meet Gielgud or Burton? ‘No. But my mother sat on the stairs at home after seeing Burton in Coriolanus and wept because she knew she would never marry him. I’ve watched every interview with Burton I can. It was just such a shame he died at 58.’ Given the choice, would she prefer to have had dinner with Gielgud or Burton? ‘Burton – I’m with my mum on that score.’

Gielgud learned to loathe the clamouring crowds that, as he saw it, undermined the play itself. You might think that Gielgud, who represented the most elitist end of the English stage, would have raised American hackles. But it turns out he was much loved by the method school of mumblers. Marlon Brando was Mark Antony in the film that he and Gielgud did together of Julius Caesar (Burton turned the part down), and Gielgud helped him out with his speeches. The young beat-era Brando in turn loved Gielgud’s brand of elegant reserve, announcing: ‘That cat is down.’ Lee Strasberg, one of the great gurus of the method, had been to see Gielgud’s Hamlet in the 1930s and was mesmerised by his capacity to inhabit Hamlet’s mind: ‘When Gielgud speaks the verse, I can hear Shakespeare thinking,’ he declared. 

The Burton Hamlet wasn’t over-burdened with thought; nor was it helped by Gielgud’s chronic indecision and his odd suggestions (‘Try wearing a hat,’ was one note he gave an actor desperate for help). The show on Broadway, however, made a fortune; it was probably the most profitable Shakespeare ever staged. Gielgud – who voiced the Ghost for the show – summed up Burton as ‘shrewd, generous, intelligent and co-operative. I grew very fond of him’. But he privately admitted he was no Hamlet as he never had the princely bearing required. The crowds didn’t agree. When Gielgud played the part, he got 20 curtain calls a night and invariably missed his bus home. Burton, however, staggered through 138 performances, narrowly breaking Gielgud’s record to the latter’s mild upset. Burton’s Hamlet was an artistic flop that utterly triumphed.

The Bank of England is right: Brits can’t keep demanding pay rises

Bank of England chief economist Huw Pill isn’t going to win a popularity contest. Speaking on a podcast for Columbia Law School – a medium in which he perhaps felt a little less exposed than had he said it on a British TV programme – he said: 

‘Somehow in the UK, someone needs to accept that they are worse off and stop trying to maintain their real spending power by bidding up prices….What we’re facing now is that reluctance to accept that yes, we’re all worse off and we all have to take our share.’

Nurses, doctors, train drivers and everyone else contemplating striking for an inflation-beating, or even inflation-matching, pay rise: those remarks are aimed at you.

Pill is correct. In an economy which is stagnant, where productivity is flat – or falling by 7 per cent since before the pandemic in the case of the public sector, according to the Office for National Statistics – it ought to be obvious that we can’t all have a real-terms pay rise. Certain groups of workers can – at the expense of others. Or we can all have a nominal pay rise. But inflation is the corrective mechanism which ensures we cannot have the economic equivalent of a perpetual motion machine – if wages go up in a stagnant economy, prices will rise to match.

Yet all this rather ignores the Bank of England’s own role in the inflationary surge of the past couple of years. A blip in energy prices caused by the Ukraine war and its fallout, as noted by Pill, is not the whole story. Inflation was already rampant when Vladimir Putin sent in his tanks. Might this possibly have something to do with the fact that the Bank of England kept interest rates at near-zero for over a decade and carried on pumping money into the economy, via quantitative easing, even when the economy was growing?   

The Bank of England appears to be in full denial mode on this. Also yesterday, deputy governor Ben Broadbent said inflation had nothing to do with quantitative-easing (QE), asserting that claims that QE ‘inevitably leads to excessive inflation are not well supported by the evidence’.

It begs the question: what evidence would Broadbent consider convincing? Many economists warned throughout the past decade that QE was pumping up asset prices and that this would, in time, feed through to into consumer prices.  

If we could build two parallel Earths, one where QE was conducted and one where it was not, we could carry out a controlled experiment and find out for sure. But in the absence of that, all we can do is theorise. The facts, though, are straightforward. Many warned that QE – which is really just a polite name for printing money – would spark inflation, as it had in Zimbabwe and Weimar Germany. We have ended up with inflation – which the Bank of England failed completely to foresee, predicting as late as May 2021 that the Consumer Prices Index would rise no higher than 2 per cent. The Bank of England has a very strong vested interest in denying the link between QE and inflation – and it is now doing just that.

Bridge | 29 April 2023

The American multiple world champion Eric Rodwell is truly a legend of bridge. He and his former partner Jeff Meckstroth were the best pair in the world for so long that they were referred to simply as ‘Meckwell’. When he published his book The Rodwell Files: Secrets of a Bridge Champion 12 years ago, it quickly became a modern classic.

I bought it a while ago, but only got round to starting it recently, and by coincidence, a friend told me he was reading it too. ‘I came across your name,’ he added. ‘Impossible!’, I replied, laughing at the idea. But he was convinced, so as soon as I got home I flicked through the pages and – behold! – there it is: ‘North: Gross’. It all made sense when I saw ‘South: Brock’. That’s Sally Brock, of course, the women’s world champion, whom I was lucky enough to partner in the 2010 England Lady Milne trials. Rodwell uses a deal from the trials to illustrate what he calls ‘The Left Jab’ – where second hand plays high to prevent declarer from running a long suit when there are no side entries – and it was Sally, of course, who did just that:

Sally led the ♥7, South played low from dummy and I put in the ♥10. South won and played the ◆4. Sally didn’t hesitate in hopping up with the ◆Q to restrict declarer to one diamond trick. Declarer ducked, hoping to finesse or drop my ◆Kx next time around but it was no good. Sally returned another heart, declarer finessed another diamond, and the contract went two down. Rodwell points out that had South won with the ◆A and played a club, I must cover. I would have, I promise!

The vegans have landed in West Cork

After a day’s house-hunting in West Cork, I texted the builder boyfriend to say that we were too late. The vegans had landed.

This was my second trip to view farms in Ireland and I fell even more in love with the rugged, sometimes desolate landscape punctuated by friendly market towns with bunting strung across the streets. Unfortunately, so had everyone else.

The London lefties have made it to the Emerald Isle. Having laid waste to Devon, Cornwall and Wales with their llamas and yurts and mental ideas about everything rural from farming to hunting, the liberal elite have set sail for the west coast of Ireland, or rather they have got on a Ryanair flight. It’s one hour from London to Cork.

Whereas it’s a seven-hour drive to Wales and the Welsh Assembly has quite rightly brought in a savage second home tax to make sure the Islington lefties sell up and leave. Devon and Cornwall seem to be battling it out more philosophically, by refusing to serve second-homers in shops, or being rude to them, that sort of thing. I wish them luck.

Of course, neither I nor anyone should ever write about house-hunting in Ireland. We will all of us bear some responsibility when the first sabs start throwing themselves in front of horses at the Irish derby.

I was sitting in my car outside a long, white farmhouse, donkey in the front paddock, gypsy caravan out back, when a friend texted me the link: ‘Why Brits are ditching Cornwall for the west coast of Ireland.’

I looked out over the herds of cows for beef and dairy grazing in fields sweeping impossibly green towards the brown and purple mountains, the wind whistling, the chickens squawking, the sun peaking momentarily through moody grey clouds and I thought: ‘No! No no no no no!’

It was like a nightmare. It was like a horror film, when the monster you are sure is somewhere else suddenly rears up in front of you. How can this be happening?

When the agent turned up to show me the ramshackle farm, I asked him how business was going and he confirmed that the majority of his farm sales were to Brits. The agent at the previous farm had told me the same but I had pushed it away, not wanting to believe it. He had been very cheerful about it. ‘Returning Brits’ he called them because he had convinced himself they were once Irish, or linked to Ireland in some way. Perhaps this was how he squared it with himself. But when he told me the leading offer on that place, a house nestling in a valley beside a ruined castle, was from a British couple who wanted only six of the 50 acres so their children could ‘keep a pony’, deep down I knew.

When the second agent told me I had better be quick with an offer I said: ‘Listen. These people are going to ruin your countryside. Oh, I know I’m one of them, in a way, but really I’m not. I’m rural. These people, they’re… vegans. They’re anti-farming. They keep llamas I tell you!’

He looked at me with his mouth open as I continued. ‘They complain about the noise of crop guns, the smell of silage…’

‘Oh, we wouldn’t like that,’ he muttered. ‘Well, that’s what you’re getting!’ I cried. ‘I’ve had them up to here for years in Surrey and now because of home working they’re everywhere. They cannot be contained.’

I looked at the old black donkey munching happily in a paddock fenced with old roadworks barriers. ‘They’ll ring that in!’ I said.

He nodded, sagely. He knew what I was trying to tell him. But for now, the agents are making a lot of money. The house was too small for us, and there wasn’t enough land.

But the main thing that wasn’t right was that two agents had confirmed that my nearest neighbours might be a pair of unwashed British hobbit people with a couple of feral children called Willow and Sky.

The BB texted me the link for another farm that had caught our eye, in a location we had decided was so far from anything that we didn’t know how we would cope.

It was midday and I had to be at Cork airport for a 4.50 p.m. flight home but this other place looked reachable on the map. How far could it be when it was in the next county? I put it into the satnav to see if I could make a round trip but the answer came back that the drive to Roscrea was three and a half hours.

Turns out it really is a long, long way to Tipperary.

If we do manage to get our house under offer, maybe we’ll go there.

My morphine machine has broken

Monday morning. In comes Frank. Frank is a carer in his late fifties. He comes daily to wash me. Still half asleep, I sit upright in my mechanical cradle forking in Greek yoghurt, strawberries and granola and looking out of the window. Up here on the cliff, it’s another clear, blue, busy day ahead for our feathery nest builders, egg rearers and chick scoffers.

In his spare time Frank plays bass, he says. Of all the styles he likes funk best, he says. His style is a busy, intricate one. He’ll show you his air guitar version. Funky Frank is his nickname in the local pub music circle. I’ve been washed in turn by all the local carers now. Catriona and I have decided that although he was a bit brutal with his caring to begin with, Funky Frank has become gentler over time. Also that he has a good heart, and that we like him. This morning he was caring alone instead of in the usual team of two.

‘Monday morning, eh, Frank?’ I said sympathetically. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Is this what you say in England to start the week? For me it makes no difference. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Every day my spirit is the same. Nothing changes because of what day it is. I am still Frank.’ I think Frank has been to India or somewhere and fancies himself as some sort of Buddhist. ‘Everything changes. Or nothing changes – is it? Or is it nothing changes except the avant garde? I can never quite remember.’

I was in bloody agony, however. ‘My spirit isn’t the same, Frank,’ I said, making my vital objection in an undignified tone. I’m wired up via my right thigh to what is known as a morphine syringe driver. As well as delivering a ‘bolus’ or glob of morphine once an hour day and night, I can press a button on a remote control once an hour at my discretion and get a double hit. Or I can leave it. It’s up to me. As a rule, however, I never fail to take the full morphine allowance. But last night something went wrong with the machine and I got only my hourly dose and nothing else. Which ain’t enough. Not to mask the bone pain entirely it’s not. So for the previous few hours I’d been waiting for daylight to edge the curtains and the sun to breast the hillside and the sounds of a Provençal village rising and shining. And then Catriona padding downstairs and putting the kettle on. And returning with mugs of Lapsang Souchong and crisp toast and ‘intense’ apricot jam. And shortly after that the sound of Frank’s feet on the steep stone stairs leading up to the front door, and his voice saying: ‘Coo-coo!’ 

So that’s it, I think. Nothing left for me to do in the mornings except to lie back and let Frank wash me. I don’t even have to measure the colourful little morphine capsules into the palm of my hand and chuck them down my throat at the right times. It’s all done by the machine, which measures the morphine doses and strengths and doles them out hourly. And now I have reached the exciting stage where I can double up on these extra-curricular morphine doses should I want to. I do, but up to a point, Lord Copper. What happens later on, I don’t know. Perhaps a point is reached where I or somebody else, somebody sanctioned by the state, can whack in a massive dose and end it right there. I don’t yet know that either. Naturally one rather hopes so. One hopes anyhow that the French flair for doing the right and best thing in any given situation will hold firm once again in my case.

After Frank had washed me, two nuns came upstairs. Spiritual cleaners. Sister Mary of the Angels and Sister Maria Clara. Sister Maria Clara was the younger of the two. Their visit had been planned for a fortnight. This bedroom is getting a little crowded and they perched on low stools. They perched and spoke about the nature of God’s love and as they did so they looked me in the eye. Invariably I blinked first.

We talked about Mary. Sister Mary of the Angels thought that praying to Mary was not exactly the same as praying to God. She said also that as a sisterhood they loved me. They said that every one of them loved me and that they were praying for me. Then they gave me a rosary and went out.

There is an Anglican vicar down on the coast. He says he will come at the drop of a hat to give me Holy Communion. I shall ask him to come, I think, and soon. I do miss the Sir Thomas Cranmer version so. Not much time left, though, for shilly-shallying.

INVITATION: Readers are invited to a memorial service for Jeremy at St Martin-in-the-Fields church in central London on the morning of Monday, 10 July. Details are yet to be confirmed but anyone who might like to attend can register their interest here.

New York’s killer cyclists

The most likely place to be injured, or even killed, in the Bagel is the sidewalk, any sidewalk, where bikes and scooters have free rein to mow down the old, the infirm, and those unable to perform life-saving, matador-like avoidance moves. Yep, marauding bikers use the sidewalks of New York to beat the traffic and intimidate people, and have managed to impose their illegal presence there as a beleaguered police force turn a blind eye.

It all started under the last mayor of the Bagel, one so bad that I dare not mention his name in the elegant pages of The Speccie. And it continues – but even more so – under the present mayor, a nice but incompetent ex-cop. A total disregard for the law is now acceptable, with bikers openly performing glissandos past very fat and short traffic wardens who pretend not to see them as they mow down walkers.

As I walk everywhere in the city and use a car on only rare occasions, I am a daily witness to this outrage. After some narrow escapes, I have loudly remonstrated with the bully ruffians, eliciting an intriguing elision of ‘mthfkr’ and other such elegant responses. Dripping with attitude, bikers and scooter riders are terrorising mostly the very old, who can remember the time when walking on a sidewalk almost guaranteed a safe arrival.

Actually, I gave up long ago on bike-free sidewalks, but I try to point out to leisure riders that biking on the walking paths of Central Park is strictly a no-no. There are signs everywhere saying ‘Dismount and walk’, which everyone ignores and most riders don’t seem to understand. ‘Dismount’ is too hoity-toity a word. A much better understood and more likely to be obeyed caution would be ‘Get off your bike, you asshole.’ The most dangerous of all kamikazes are the food deliverers. They are mostly from Central America, do not speak English, and are dressed in all-black outfits. They are always speeding. Oh yes, I almost forgot: the great majority have no lights as they hurtle down one-way streets the wrong way in order to make their deliveries. The trouble is that I don’t blame them. They’re very hardworking, get paid peanuts, and come from countries where the rule of law is considered to be for suckers only. I’ve almost been run over by a couple of them, but I’m on their side. They’re the hardest-working stiffs in the Bagel.

Never mind. My son was once a bike messenger, hence I sympathise with those who use two-wheelers for work. But the arabesque-performing, greasy-haired, bum-clenching megalomaniacs are the ones I daily pray will end up in that sauna-like place below after their early demise.

Which brings me to a different kettle of fish altogether, and a great lunch I recently attended, one that a double silver-star Special Forces old buddy of mine threw to celebrate his 82nd birthday. Chuck Pfeiffer and I used to hit the clubs rather hard in the good old days, nights rather, and we often ended up mixing it with those who took umbrage at our right-wing remarks – the trouble being that Chuck is very big and looks very hard, whereas the poor little Greek boy ‘no look so tough’. While getting out of a flashy car he once hired, we were confronted by two hard guys who made fun of my Anderson & Sheppard suit hinting that I was Chuck’s toy boy. I was getting ready to rumble when Chuck growled: ‘I’ll rip your hearts out and show them to you before you die…’ End of confrontation.

In the land of bull, such talk is taken seriously, hence the ex-Winston Man had a free ride most of the time. He now has trouble walking and no longer drinks, which makes him a very dull boy, but I was glad to see him and he put me at the head of the table where I proceeded to get nice and drunk in the middle of the day. And I was extremely happy to see Julian Schnabel and his beautiful Swedish companion. Julian was very famous back in the 1980s, his paintings going for lotsa moolah, as well as his films. He made some good ones, my favourite being Before Night Falls, about a gay Cuban artist trying to flee Castro’s paradise.

Julian has always been friendly and for this reason I withdrew the contract I had taken out on his son Vito. Vito has pulled more beauties than I’ve thrown punches in the dojo, so about 20 years ago I decided he had to be eliminated. But I couldn’t go through with it, especially as the kid was funny and did not take life seriously. During the lunch I realised that if anyone had to go, it was the father. Julian has been much married, but his latest is a rare beauty of Swedish vintage, and a very nice person to talk to. Vito, incidentally, was the one who took Amber Heard to Koronis island long ago, where she woke up the host George Livanos and complained that the shower wasn’t working, an obvious come-on to my mind and one that he ignored, which had me hitting my head against a large plaster plant in frustration.

Oh well, Alexandra dragged me home telling me it’s embarrassing to be seen with a drunk in the middle of the day. I agree.

The narcissism of Just Stop Oil

Just Stop Oil (JSO) activists have an insatiable appetite for mayhem. Protesters from the environmental group are slowing down traffic in London today, conducting a ‘go slow’ march through Parliament Square. This isn’t the first time, of course, that they’ve caused disruption.

Cast your minds back to July last year, when five members of JSO glued themselves to the Last Supper painting in London’s Royal Academy. A few days before this rather odd demonstration, campaigners entered the National Gallery in central London and proceeded to glue themselves to the frame of John Constable’s the Hay Wain.

Earlier this month, a JSO protester disrupted the World Snooker Championship in Sheffield by jumping onto the table and emptying a bag of orange powder paint over the playing surface. Next up, according to reports, is the King’s coronation.

A peer-reviewed paper, released earlier this month, suggests that some activism is driven by narcissism. The study, conducted by two prominent psychologists at the University of Bern, Switzerland, found narcissism to be a common feature among ‘anti-sexual assault activism’. But might that narcissism also be a motivating factor for other demonstrators, including members of JSO?

When we think of narcissism, we tend to focus on agentic narcissism (those with diminished empathy for others), or grandiose narcissism (someone who displays an excessive sense of self-importance). However, communal narcissists – those who consider themselves the most caring person in his or her social surroundings – differ from more traditional narcissists, in that they use communal events to satisfy their grandiose needs. According to the researchers, manipulative individuals with ulterior motives may view some types of activism as a vehicle for obtaining positive self-presentation (e.g., virtue signalling) and gaining status. They may also view public demonstrations – particularly those against sexual assault – as a way of dominating others and engaging in social conflicts to ‘get their thrills’. In short, some are willing to exploit the adoration (or notoriety) of the movement to fuel their own egotistical desires. The authors aren’t describing JSO members specifically, but you would be forgiven for thinking otherwise. 

One of the psychologists involved in the study, Alexander Bertrams, told me that many forms of modern day activism are attractive to narcissists, as they help satisfy their self-related needs.

‘In this sense,’ he said, ‘we have found a relationship between greater involvement in activism and a higher inclination for virtue signalling.’ This allows an activist to advertise their supposed moral superiority over non-activists.

‘We think that narcissists are involved in activism not for altruistic reasons, but for selfish ones,’ said Bertrams, who was quick to emphasise that activism in itself is not narcissistic. Instead, an increasing number of individuals with narcissistic traits view activism as a powerful channel to act out narcissistically.

On JSO protesters, Bertrams told me that climate activism, which ‘is currently receiving a lot of media attention, elicits strong emotional reactions from the people, and involves a certain amount of aggression’. For this very reason, he noted, ‘it is likely to be very attractive to narcissists.’

According to Bertrams, there are two groups of climate activists: those who take action out of their authentic views and are truly convinced that urgent action is required; and, on the other side, there are the narcissists who appear to be more interested in performative acts of ‘care’. They are fixated on the idea of drawing attention to themselves, rather than actually drawing attention to any specific environmental matter. 

‘If trying to damage artworks in the name of saving the climate leads to increased admiration in one’s peer group and invitations to talk shows,’ said Bertrams, ‘that strikes me as very attractive to narcissists.’ Indeed.

Narcissists derive great pleasure from being able to control and influence the actions of other people. ‘I can imagine that the negative emotions that a roadblock triggers in the affected citizens are emotional feed for a narcissist,’ said Bertrams. ‘Triggering a strong reaction in others through one’s own behaviour is a form of exercising power and control.’

Then, there is the matter of hypocrisy: an infuriating practice that is intimately associated with narcissism. Some JSO members appear to be hypocrites of the highest order. After all, they famously used adhesives made from fossil fuels to glue themselves to paintings and roads. They claim to care about saving humanity, yet have prevented ambulances and fire engines from reaching their destinations.

Bertrams stressed the fact that ‘narcissists place a lot of value in presenting themselves in a positive light,’ but rarely, if ever, live up to their lofty ideals away from the public eye. A virtuous image is important to them, even if this image is built on nothing but a foundation of sand.

Of course, one needn’t be a trailblazing psychologist to see through the JSO charade. Nevertheless, the study sheds some much needed light on the motives of some modern day activists.

Why are so many Indian migrants crossing the Channel?

Indians now make up the second-biggest cohort of Channel migrants: 675 Indians arrived in small boats in the first three months of this year, according to Home Office figures. This amounts to almost a fifth of the total 3,793 crossings made in the first quarter of this year. The number represents a stark rise: only 683 Indians made the journey in the whole of last year. Albanians, yes, Afghans and Iraqis possibly – but the revelation that so many from India are making the dangerous crossing to England has taken many by surprise.

The Indian government insists that the growth in emigration is linked to a rise in Sikhs fleeing the country because of a crackdown on the separatist movement in the state of Punjab. Lawyers acting for some migrants have previously claimed the surge in undocumented Indian migration is linked to the rise of the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata party, or BJP, and the sectarian violence it has inspired. There is no hard evidence to back either claim. More likely is that the increase is due to work opportunities in the UK. The gig economy, in particular the food delivery business, is notorious for its use of illegal migrant workers.

On the southern border of the United States, a similar story is unfolding: after migrants from Latin America, more Indians were detained last year for attempted illegal entry than citizens of any other country. A record  16,000 Indians were caught by the border patrol in 2022, a huge increase from just a decade earlier when only 77 were detained. 

So what’s really going on? This isn’t quite the traditional story of people fleeing war, violence or political persecution. Many of the latest cohort of Indian migrants face no significant threat to their safety or liberty, nor are they necessarily the poorest or most destitute of people desperate to make their way to Europe or the United States. It is really a story based first and foremost on hard economic realities. Many are simply leaving India for a better life, or for a chance to reunite with families who have already emigrated. Some may have been rejected for official visas because they possess none of the specific qualifications needed to apply for a work or education visa that would allow them to take up legal residence. Paying smugglers to get them there illegally is often the only way left.

Just as telling is another statistic: India now has the largest diaspora population in the world. More than 18 million Indians were recorded as living outside their homeland in 2020, according to a United Nations report. The United States has been the historically preferred destination, but Indians are increasingly turning their sights on other destinations, including Canada, the Middle East as well as Europe, in particular France, Germany and Britain.

This prompts a bigger question. Why are so many Indians apparently keen to leave their own country, one that is routinely hailed as one of the world’s fastest growing economies? Surely there’s a better economic future in staying put? Not so, apparently. This points to a paradox at the heart of modern India and its ambitions to be seen as a global superpower. It may have pretensions of becoming an economic powerhouse, but it also remains one of the world’s most unequal countries. It is a society that is riddled with divisions and social tensions based on caste, religion and region. Nor is it a stranger to corruption and cronyism.

As some Indians get richer, many continue to struggle: access to healthcare is seen as an unaffordable luxury rather than a basic right. India spends barely two per cent of its GDP on health. Its cities, stricken by decades of underinvestment in infrastructure, are groaning under the weight of population movement from the countryside: it is estimated that another 270 million Indians will end up living in urban areas by 2040.

The country is producing far too few good jobs, with large numbers of Indians in work without regular pay or social benefits. Thousands upon thousands of graduates find it difficult to find opportunities that match their qualifications.

Female participation in the workforce is an even bigger struggle, in part due to social pressures on women to leave work after marriage. Simply put, India’s rulers are failing to deliver. The growing number of Indian migrants crossing the Channel is stark evidence of this brutal economic reality: more and more Indians prefer a life elsewhere and are resorting to more and more desperate means to achieve it. 

Do Scots support Humza Yousaf’s defence of devolution?

Devolution has largely failed in Scotland and Wales and some powers need to be returned to Westminster. This is a precis of a controversial article by Lord Frost in the Daily Telegraph last week that continues to provoke outrage. Leading members of the SNP have denounced it. Scottish First Minister Humza Yousaf has vowed to ‘defend our democracy’ in the face of the attack, and Stephen Flynn, the SNP leader at Westminster, has called it evidence of ‘a deliberate, co-ordinated attempt to reverse devolution, …and force Scotland under Westminster control.’ Even some Tories and unionist commentators have slammed Frost’s piece either as outright ‘nonsense’ or a tactical error gifting the seemingly moribund SNP a ‘lifeline’ in the form of fodder for its ever active grievous machine.

They are wrong, and Lord Frost is right. Devolution has been a disaster for Scotland, offering unchecked power to one of the lowest quality cohorts of politicians the UK has ever seen, with lamentable consequences for the country.

Where to start? Its Byzantine seat allocation system, which almost no one understands, has allowed a party that few people vote for (the Scottish Greens) to virtually dictate national policy. Thanks to them we very nearly had open season for any biological male, including convicted rapists, to access women’s spaces. We also nearly had a bottle deposit return scheme that was opposed by nearly every drinks company in the country. And if they get their way, one of the country’s most profitable sectors, oil and gas, will be effectively shut down.

It is unaccountable, like a perpetually indulged petulant teenager its endless mistakes are underwritten by mother Westminster. Its workings are opaque and mysterious with the failure to adequately separate powers or allow for adequate scrutiny almost incentivising secrecy and corruption. Tory MP David Davis had to use parliamentary privilege to reveal ‘whistleblower’ evidence about the Alex Salmond affair. The nation had to rely on Westminster to block the mad Gender Recognition Reform Bill (GRRB).

The standard of debate is often pitiful. A representative example would be when former First Minister Nicola Sturgeon got her notes mixed up and gave totally unrelated pre-scripted answers to questions – twice – and almost nobody noticed. Lorna Slater, Green minister for the ‘circular economy’ simply walked out rather than face a tough question recently, and wasn’t obliged to return. With good reason did Billy Connolly call it ‘the wee pretendy parliament’.

To boot, it is ruinously expensive. The massive overspend on the ugly building (£414 million – ten times the original budget) was a harbinger of things to come. The Scottish government’s budget is now £60 billion. If they had just left the hole dug for the foundations and poured money into it ever since if would have achieved as much and at least have saved us an eyesore and 24 years’ of insufferable windbaggery.

But what may escape the SNP hierarchy and some commentators is that these views are increasingly widespread north of the border. If Yousaf hopes an attack on devolution and Holyrood by a prominent Tory will lead to grass roots outrage and arrest in their plummeting fortunes, it may be in vain. 

For who now has any respect for the Holyrood parliament? Not many in the Highland and Islands waiting for vital ferries that never arrive. Not many in the business community who seem to be under constant attack. Not many who drive on roads that are never upgraded, or use the failing NHS, or have issues with their failing schools, or simply have some regard for how Scotland is perceived on the world stage. 

And not even hardcore nationalists it seems, who only ever saw the parliament as a vehicle for true independence. Influential pro-independence blog Wings Over Scotland regularly highlights the farcical proceedings at Holyrood. It also condemned the passing of the GRRB, contrary to the wishes of the majority of the people of Scotland. Prominent nationalist and Alba supporter Craig Murray has described the devolution settlement as ‘a moral sink’.

It may be that the only truly committed defenders of the devolution settlement are those that directly benefit from its largesse, what Murray calls the ‘troughocracy’. The SNP benches, he attests, are stuffed with faux nationalists far too comfortable with the present circumstances to genuinely pursue the cause they so fulsomely espouse. And why would they? A comfortable sinecure, a platform to pontificate, almost unlimited funds to play with and extensive powers of patronage to exploit. All with very little accountability. What’s not to like? Hooray for Holyrood!

For those lucky few, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it; or, perhaps more accurately, if it is broke but it works out well for us, don’t fix it. And viciously attack anyone who tries, on the grounds of ‘defending democracy’.

I’m unconvinced that Lord Frost pointing out some uncomfortable truths will save the SNP from oblivion or jeopardise the Union. The same argument was put forward over the government’s Section 35 order blocking the GRRB and look how that worked out. Scottish Tories take note: a little honestly, a commodity in short supply in Scottish politics in recent years, might be just what is required right now.

Where to get your Lapsang (now Twinings has ruined theirs)

Tea drinkers erupted in a fit of caffeinated rage on Monday; kettle cosies were dashed across the kitchen, bone china was placed down hastily and many people were all very cross. Twinings sparked the uproar after axing its Lapsang Souchong tea and replacing it with something called ‘Distinctively Smoky’. It has been met with near universal disapproval and branded a stain on the company’s 300 year history.

Famously Winston Churchill’s brew of choice, Lapsang Souchong is a centuries-old tea thought to have originated in the Wuyi Mountains in the Fujian Province of China, with the first record of it in 1646. Legend has it Wuyi locals fleeing Qing soldiers dried fresh batches of tea over fire to expedite their escape. Lapsang’s signature aroma and sweet notes of pine resin are a result of this process.

The imitation blend has been likened to ‘old cigarettes’, ‘stale cigarettes’, ‘ashtrays’, ‘fake bacon bits’ and ‘glue’. It seems to have missed the mark. Twinings’s Lapsang cost £12.50 for 100g; Distinctively Smokey, is around ten quid less. But it has bastardised the product and the consensus is people would rather pay more for the real thing.

Others said Distinctively Smoky was ‘like sipping a swimming pool after a chemical incident’, hmm. Twinings said it would pass the feedback on to its Master Blenders. The drama after Twinings complained of ‘sourcing challenges’, prompting the ‘difficult decision’ to replace Lapsang with a new blend of teas from around the world ‘including China’.

Despite its origins, Lapsang is ‘seen as a quintessentially British brew,’ Henrietta Lovell, who curates tea lists for hotels like Claridges, told the Telegraph. ‘It is more popular among older tea drinkers who grew up drinking stronger loose leaf tea,’ she added.

Indeed, it’s heartwarming to see Brits getting vexed over a cuppa; we are still a nation of tea lovers. George Orwell with his eleven golden rules for tea-making, would be proud. But until Twinings brings Lapsang back, here’s a handful of places you can try:

Fortnum & Mason: Lapsang Souchong Loose Leaf Tin (£10.95/125g)

‘The plucked leaves are withered over pine fires, pan-dried, rolled and placed in bamboo baskets, then smoked over smouldering pinewood fires,’ according to F&M. It pairs well with cheese and chocolate cake.

Brew Tea Company: Lapsang Proper Tea Bags (£32/100 bags)

‘This black Chinese tea has been smoked for deep, earthy goodness, but it’s still fairly light and ever so-slightly-sweet, so you’ll be able to reach for it slightly earlier than your usual tipple.’

Whittard: Lapsang Souchong Loose Tea (£9.50/75g)

‘Smoky Lapsang Souchong is dried over fires of resin-sweet pinewood, a technique discovered by accident back in the 16th century.’

The Tea Makers of London: Tarry Lapsang Souchong Loose Leaf (£7.50/125g)

‘Invoking images of wood-burning stoves and forest walks, this strong and smoky tarry Lapsang from Fujian province is the perfect black tea to warm your winter.’

Taylors of Harrogate: Lapsang Souchong Tea Bags (£4.10/20 bags)

‘Our Lapsang Souchong tea is created in the mountains of China, where the leaves are dried on bamboo over smoking pine wood fires. It’s one of the oldest tea-making methods in the world, and it gives the leaves a uniquely deep, rich, smoky flavour.’

The joy of India’s heritage hotels

As the pandemic roared through India, I wondered when tourists like me would be able to return to a country so central to the traveller’s imagination. When we did return, would it show the scars of the hideous death toll and extreme burden of suffering? Would we feel safe? Finally, nearly three years since I first wondered this, I went to find out. I flew not long after India relaxed all Covid paperwork late last year. A sadistically bureaucratic nation at the best of times, India had scrapped British e-Visas in retaliation for something that no one can quite work out, making the visa application process somewhat Kafka-esque. The e-Visa has, thankfully, since returned. It is a good time to return: prices can be quite reasonable on the layover flights a day from London to Delhi and Mumbai, plus direct hops to Bengaluru, Chennai and Hyderabad. 

Having lost my traveller’s courage somewhat since Covid – and got older – this was no time for roughing it: my re-entry would have to be as well-managed and delightful as possible, the sometimes tricky bits of India smartly ironed out. Luckily, if you know where to go and are willing to spend a bit of money, this can be done almost completely. And if you don’t have much time – I had a week-odd in which to soak up what sun and culture I could – then you have to be realistic about how much of the country to see, while being open to a couple of low-cost domestic hops. I landed in Mumbai, flew to Indore in the middle West, then whizzed to Rajasthan for a few days in and around Jaipur before flying back to London from Mumbai. 

Part One: Ahilya Fort, Maheshwar, Madhya Pradesh 

My first stop was always going to be Ahilya Fort. I had yearned for this spot, where I had been just before the pandemic struck, and which I had hung on to as a beacon in the imagination in the years when Asia seemed a land never to be reached again. I hoped Ahilya would be the template for the second half of the trip: based around exceptionally-run, impeccably decorated, heritage-infused hotels that are less like hotels and more like the architectural passions of owners past and present.

I stepped, bleary, from Indore airport straight into an electric SUV, and was driven through a just-waking, colourful Indore, now India’s ‘cleanest city’ (and it looked clean, almost spookily so), into the hilly passes I had looked forward to seeing again as the morning mist lifted. We crawled through the hilltop Jam Gate, built by Maharani Ahilyabai Holkar – whose descendent Richard Holkar still lives in and runs Ahilya Fort – to connect Maheshwar to Indore. ‘Morning time is monkey time,’ said the driver, and though I peered into the greenery of the valley, no monkeys. It was beautiful and exciting anyway, just to be there. 

Arriving at Ahilya Fort is ideally done on more sleep than was in my tank, for there is much to take in. After a steep incline on narrow streets through Maheshwar – past piles of vegetables, drinks and textiles vendors, and shrines – the car nudged into a compound whose loose perimeter includes a whitewashed weaving factory with looms operated by local craftspeople, who exports saris for fashion houses throughout the world, and a temple where twice-daily rituals in honour of Queen Ahilyabai and the sacred Narmada river below take place. Dividing the fort proper from the public area of the temple, its shops and the bustle of the looms, is the kind of dark wooden door controlled by quiet guards that I have only ever seen in India, of imposingly martial depth and weight. 

Inside, paradise awaits. I passed a whorl of nuzzling pugs on chairs in a verdant pen and then arrived on the terrace, canopied in white and pink flowers with blossoms on every wall. It’s here that I passed many hours with a book and cup after cup of masala tea, listening to the sound of the hubbub on the ghats far below, where swimmers cool off noisily throughout the day and boats putter out to the temple in the middle of the river, known as ‘the centre of the universe’. It’s here that breakfast, which includes home-made bread, exotic home-made jams inspired partly by Holkar’s residence in Paris, punchy poha (a spiced rice dish) and masala-streaked Mehashwari omelette, is served, as well as afternoon tea with lavender shortbread. Come evening, as the sun sets on the Narmada’s far bank, there are drinks – a remarkable array of non-alcoholic cocktails (booze is harder to come by, though by no means impossible, in Modi’s India) which come with a parade of savoury bites cooked continuously on a fire at the back of the terrace. 

The grounds, and the rooms, are not flashy or particularly opulent but they are exquisite; unique, creaking with history, entirely without gleam or glitz. There are no TVs, but there are one-off centuries-old chaise longues, cannons, bronzes, old photographs and a small shrine room between the terrace and the inner courtyard. It all reflects the heritage and taste of Holkar – who remains a princely but convivial presence half the year. 

For those after sheer relaxation, the swimming pool is one of loveliest in the land: a riot of popping colour consisting of a large, cold aquamarine rectangle bounded at one end by the fort’s outermost walls with turrets, and by the lush kitchen garden on the other; flowers, low-hanging leaves and little recessed enclaves for elegant repose between meals are also inviting. Nearby is a pétanque court for more amusement and down steep stairs is a sunken outdoor yoga area and a small room for massage; simple but wonderful mostly local-style massages of body, head and foot – about £30 per hour. 

Food is the organising thread running through any stay at Ahilya, and one of its most exquisite aspects, with many ingredients sourced from the fort’s own garden. Dinner and breakfast are communal, and there are always interesting guests, with the ratio of prosperous Indians to Europeans growing as foreigners have been wary of travel. I met some Indian academics and business owners, who had been glued to a long-running documentary about Richard’s ancestor Ahilyabai Holkar, as well as a famous English historian and solicitor turned portrait photographer to the stars. Dinner was a thali, but it was lunch that delighted most: think chilled pea soup, river fish croquettes, onion tart, sweet corn cakes, salad with flowers and spiced Kashmiri cheese followed by banana upside-down cake.

For those eager for action, there is much to see in the enormous and intricate temple halfway down the steps to the river, the weaving workshop and stores, and Ahilya’s own temple – further afield, there is also a day trip to Mandu, a magnificent ancient city.

Part Two: Anopura, Jaipur

My next stop was another sophisticated home. As Richard Holkar had stayed entirely at his fort during Covid, so local industrialist Aditya Baheti – a young, handsome patriarch – had dug in at his passion project Anopura with his wife and children. He was there during my stay, eagerly, quietly observing every detail; cerebral and glamorous as he was punctilious. 

Anopura is an hour outside Jaipur in the ‘jungle’ – the atmospheric, hilly brush that rolls on and on in which lurks a small number of leopards and even more elusive tigers. I befriended a serious Italian zoologist on a research trip studying leopard sound signatures; she was great company on one of the long evening drives in the jeep, along with Piyush, the animal-loving manager, to find the spotted cats. We just missed one, but we saw plenty of ‘blue’ bulls, part of the antelope family, and interesting birds. In the absence of leopards, I was very happy with beers and puffed rice in a little gazebo facing the sunset. 

Anopura has no central area; it is all villas. My room included a big bedroom, quite simply furnished, and a bathroom of the same size, with a tub and shower. The best bit, though, was my slate-bottomed plunge pool and cosy little area around a low table, with books and cushions, and another table for intimate dinners. I loved having dinner here on my own, reading, drinking wine, and retiring early to bed. By day, as nobody was in the impressive central villa, I made use of its large, dazzling grey-bottomed pool, with views of verdant hills and the busy movement of peacocks and other colourful birds in the dense, humming trees. This large villa, which sleeps a couple of families, has in its indoor sitting room a cabinet of treasures retrieved by Baheti from far-flung corners of the world.

One afternoon, I was taken to the Anopura farm, which includes a large vegetable garden as well as animals. The whole outfit employs and works with local villagers and artisans, who are elegant, skilled and knowledgeable. I encountered a team of them on the farm where, after meeting beautiful calves and baby camels, I was served a meal that included round, glistening balls of spiced bread that had been slow-cooked in a pile of hot ashy sand by a man in a white robe; the soft, nutty chapatis cooked over fire by a pink-sari-wearing lady were also perfect. 

As at Ahilya, the service here is almost telepathic; ubiquitous and instant without ever feeling intrusive. After hours reading in the dusky sunshine, detailed zoological explorations, and wonderful meals, I was sad to leave, but ready to finish the trip in Jaipur itself.

Part three: Samode Haveli, Jaipur

If you are keen to experience the big jewel of Rajasthan in full splendour then you ought to stay in the 300-year-old Samode Haveli (haveli means mansion) and ideally in the room I snagged, the Sheesh Mahal, full of floor-to-ceiling glasswork and just about affordable as a special treat at around £400 for a night. It’s dark inside, but you’ll never see anything else like it. Divided up by vaulted arches covered from top to bottom in mosaics of the most fantastic beauty, the bed looks up to a ceiling of faded frescoes that put Renaissance Italy to shame. At night, I would lie awake with the light on, gazing at the optical splendour of the layered double archways, took selfies in the mirror framed in infinitely-refracting tiny mirrors, and sat in a jacuzzi bath trying to peer out sliver-like windows.

The Samode is more like a wonderful, bohemian museum than a hotel. Outside the room, its old yellow courtyard surrounded by airy, open sitting rooms full of Raj-era photographs, splendid pieces of furniture and walls of ruby, pale blue and yellow. You can lose yourself wandering through the haveli’s many layers, dreamily weaving between a mahogany bar, a sitting room full of fine Rajasthani objects, a light-spangled terrace, and a history-oozing dining room and bar, straight out of a Pall Mall club, only with Indian portraiture. Sunset cocktails should be taken on the rooftop, which offers excellent, somewhat unusual views of the city. 

All the big hitters (Amber Fort, Pink Palace, City Palace and more) are near, easily attainable by tuk-tuk, Uber or private car which can be arranged by the hotel, and there are some fabulous textile shops a stone’s throw from the Samode. But you don’t strictly need to leave the gates of this particular mansion for a heady Jaipur experience.

Ahilya Fort, www.hilyafort.com, rooms from around £350 per night, all food included 
Anopura, www.anopura.com, villas from £350 per night
Haveili Samode, www.samode.com/samodehaveli, rooms from £100 

Inside London’s first community-owned pub

When Enterprise Inns closed the Ivy House in April 2012 – with plans to sell it to a property developer – things looked bleak for the south London pub. Its well-established status as a community and live music venue, which has hosted artists like Joe Strummer, Elvis Costello, and Ian Dury, was under threat. What followed is a story of civic triumph. 

Nestled in the residential backstreets of Peckham Rye, The Ivy House has the proud title of being London’s first cooperatively-owned pub. When its existence was threatened, members of the local community stepped forward, campaigning successfully for a Grade II listing and raising £1 million to buy the freehold and refurbish the building.  

So what exactly does it mean to be a community pub? On a lively Friday evening, I grabbed a pint of Brick Brewery’s Peckham Pale and set up camp in a cosy corner of London’s first coop pub to find out. General manager Martha Dickson was the first to pull up a stool for a chat. 

‘Me and the co-general manager run the pub day-to-day, and above us, there’s a management committee, who are a handful of the shareholders that volunteer their time to work as the business managers,’ she said. ‘They’ll set the budgets and make the overall decisions. It’s quite funny having customers who are invested because they always want to bounce ideas off you. You want to make sure everyone feels heard because they are invested in it in a very real sense, but the ultimate decisions come down to the management committee and us as general managers.’ 

The management committee consists of eight local residents who oversee pub operations and ensure the boozer’s continued existence. According to committee vice-chair Geoff Cudd, ‘Everyone can have an input. The managers run the pub, while we look after the finances and the building. Since I’ve retired, at times I’ve put more hours in here as a volunteer than I did when I was at work.’ This work ethic is driven largely by a commitment to fair treatment of staff, customers, and shareholders alike. 

‘The basic ethos of the pub is we’re a non-profit making organisation,’ said Geoff. ‘But we have to make a profit in order to keep ahead. Any building work that needs to be done goes through me… there’s always something. You’ve got to take into account staff wages, which have to go up because we pay a proper London Living Wage.’ These principles set the tone for a pub that’s about way more than just the beer; The Ivy House is a local institution that uses music, comedy, dance and yoga events to bring local people together. 

‘It’s definitely an events-led pub,’ Martha tells me. ‘We try to do a big mixture of things… music, cabaret, film screenings, community classes. In particular, our events manager Sam Gowans has really pushed the local indie music scene.’ True to form, that night Sam is occupied with an event organised by Sister Midnight, a non-profit aiming to build their own community-owned music venue. Even so, he’s generous with his time and keen to emphasise the pub’s role in the music scene.  

‘The stage here is just a fever dream,’ he says, pointing out the venue’s plush, velvet-laden centrepiece. ‘So many in the area are just black painted box halls, which I think is partly why so many people keep coming back here. It’s not just limited to music – anything you can do on a stage, we’re more than willing to try.’ He tells me when he started working at the pub, it was very much a local. Now, the new occupiers are keen to take advantage of its decadent 1930s ballroom interior.  

I’m introduced to Hugo Simms, a local historian and former committee member who helped earn the Ivy House its Grade II listing, thereby laying the foundations for the community ownership model that endures today. ‘It was pushed through [by English Heritage] the day before the pub was due to be bought by the property developer. The developer pulled out, and the pub was still closed, but it closed with a sense of hope that it could be saved.’ 

That’s when the campaign to save the Ivy House began. Aided by Hugo and a handful of others, pub regular Tessa Blunden took charge of the newly-formed committee. It was around the time that the government brought in a new law, The Assets of Community Value Act 2012, which gave local residents influence over what might happen to important local institutions and buildings. The Ivy House became the first building to be listed as a community asset and was then bought under a ‘community right to bid’ provision of the Localism Act, with the £1 million freehold price tag being covered by grants and loans.  

The pub means a lot to those who use it. ‘Me and my other half both bought shares, we spent quite a bit of money because we love the pub and we wanted to keep it open,’ said Geoff. ‘Because I’d drunk in here for so many years, I didn’t want to lose it.’ At first, weddings supplied most of the pub’s events income but the pandemic changed that. ‘What Covid did,’ said Hugo, ‘was it gave the pub the chance to thrive without being an events venue, and these guys were able to carry it on, turning it into a destination pub.’  

The cosy charm of its wood panelling, wall art, hand-pumped real ales, and homely bookshelves has made The Ivy House a rare success story; the number of people rammed in on the particular Friday night I visited was a testament to that. As I was leaving, I was told that during the second world war, homeless families sheltered in the pub when the surrounding houses were bombed. Peckham’s residents have finally been able to return the favour. 

Could the UK’s new China policy prevent a second cold war?

What a difference a year makes. Three prime ministers ago, in April 2022, Liz Truss gave a characteristically punchy speech at Mansion House as Foreign Secretary. Grouping Beijing with Moscow into a club of ‘aggressors’ with ‘malign tactics’, she reiterated her pledge to create a ‘network of liberty’, bringing together like-minded, liberal and democratic countries to face down ‘the bullies’.

Tonight’s speech from her successor at the Foreign Office signalled a significant softening. Foreign Secretary James Cleverly tilted towards strategy and pragmatism, reiterating the message of last month’s updated Integrated Review. He called for engagement, but only on the basis of British national interest, while arguing that security should still trump all. ‘If you are looking for British foreign policy by soundbite, you will be disappointed’, he said.

So Brits should care about peace in Taiwan, not necessarily because it’s a democratic country, but because a war in the region would ‘destroy world trade worth $2.6 trillion’. We should ally with Japan and other Indo-Pacific powers, not because they are liberal nations but because ‘China is carrying out the biggest military build-up in peacetime history’. And in critical areas like telecoms and semiconductors, involvement from Chinese companies are blocked on grounds of ‘national security’ rather than just because they come from an authoritarian state. Instead of Truss’s binary world delineated by political values, Cleverly tried to draw out the boundaries of British interest and their implications for policy.

This is a worthy endeavour, but easier said than done. The UK has been trying to calibrate its approach to a rising China for more than a decade now, and it’s been burnt before. The Osborne-Cameron golden era (even as Xi Jinping was cementing his power domestically) is hard to see as anything other than naivety now. At the same time, Truss’s hostility to China was such that the Foreign Office under her was kneecapping British expertise on China for fear of foreign infiltration. 

Aiming for somewhere between these two extremes is surely the considered thing to do. (Cleverly’s own views seem to have shifted too, given he’d first become Foreign Secretary under Truss.) But here’s the challenge: neither his speech nor the updated Integrated Review demonstrate enough thinking on exactly what Britain’s interests are vis a vis China, and therefore where its red lines for engagement lie. It’s fine to call for nuance and an end to soundbites, but what does that mean in reality? 

Cleverly suggests that British businesses should still go to China, but at what point should we be concerned about their vulnerability to the whim of the Chinese Communist Party? The Foreign Office assumes that it can influence Beijing’s decisions by staying in the room, but have we really seen evidence that the Chinese respond better to polite entreaties than targeted sanctions? And if China is so important to engage with, how will Britain’s approach change if Beijing sidles even closer to Russia?

These are the hard questions that a ‘China strategy’ could help answer. Long called for by some foreign policy wonks and former diplomats, this document would set out, in more detail than the Integrated Review, exactly where Britain’s red lines with Beijing would lie. But no such document seems to exist yet, nor does there seem to be any confirmation that Whitehall is thinking about it with any urgency. 

As a result, Britain’s approach to China seems doomed to be ad hoc, reactionary to the latest campaigns by concerned MPs. Take the furore over TikTok: despite initial refusal to ban the app on government devices, No. 10 eventually relented to backbench pressure, especially as other western governments went the same way. The U-turn seemed to come less from a considered and consistent approach based on an understanding of Chinese-affiliated companies (and how they impact British interests), and more as a result of reacting to a febrile news cycle. 

And a final thought. Cleverly’s speech has angered some China hawks, in parliament and elsewhere, by decrying a new Cold War (‘It would be clear and easy – and perhaps even satisfying – for me to declare a new Cold War… Clear, easy, satisfying – and wrong’). But China already sees the US and UK’s Indo-Pacific tilt (including but not limited to Aukus) as Cold War-style containment and has said as much. Meanwhile, America has designed monumental industrial policies like the Chips Act and the Inflation Reduction Act with a tech arms race in mind. In truth, whether there’s a second Cold War depends much more on the actions and reactions in Beijing and Washington, than it does on the latest British foreign secretary.

SNP Westminster leader says the party must ‘do better’

Is the truth about the ignorance of key SNP figures being exposed? Or is the party’s ‘inner circle’ even smaller than first thought? It certainly appears to have been the norm for senior figures to only become aware of party dealings after the fact. First Minister Humza Yousaf has said he didn’t know about the purchase of a £110,000 motorhome until after he became SNP leader. Former treasurer Colin Beattie initially said he didn’t know about the buy, despite his name appearing on the SNP’s 2021 balance sheet (though he has, this evening, clarified that he ‘became aware of the transaction via the 2021 annual accounts’ – still indicating that over a year went by before he found out). Now Westminster leader Stephen Flynn has revealed the first he learned of the campervan was ‘when it was printed on the front of a newspaper’.

‘It is quite clear we can and must do better,’ Flynn said today, at the Institute for Government. When asked about whether there was a culture of information being withheld from key figures within the party, he pointed to the governance review that has been ordered by Yousaf’s government. Its purpose is to ‘ensure that all those senior officials, be they elected to the National Executive Committee or in the headquarters, are fully aware of the situation in front of them’, he said. ‘Has that been the case up until now? I’m not entirely sure.’

And questions about the SNP auditor status aren’t going away either. Flynn made headlines after telling the BBC’s Good Morning Scotland programme that the Westminster group was struggling to find new auditors. He also stated that it was only February when he was made aware of the party’s accountants, Johnstone Carmichael, quitting, two months after he had taken over from Ian Blackford as Westminster leader – and almost six months after they resigned. 

The Westminster group needs to find new auditors by 31 May – or they’ll risk losing ‘short money’ of over £1 million, and potentially some of their staff too. Yet Blackford said earlier today that his successor told him at the start of the month that a new auditor was being appointed. So who’s not telling the whole truth? Asked if Blackford was lying, Flynn dodged the question this afternoon, replying firmly: ‘There’s a big difference between stating we are likely to secure an audit firm and having an audit firm.’ The apparent fallout between the pair has sparked rumours of an ‘SNP civil war’. 

The dripping of information continues to destabilise Scotland’s ruling party, and the events of the last few weeks have been described today by former first minister Nicola Sturgeon as beyond her ‘worst nightmares’. It cannot be much more bearable for the party’s group south of the border, particularly as today’s revelations took much of the shine off of Flynn’s keynote speech at the IFG. Laying out his demands for energy powers to be devolved to Holyrood, Flynn turned to the need for ‘mutual respect’ between the UK and Scottish governments. 

‘There has been no respect for Scotland and its parliament and its democratic decision-making in recent times in any way, shape or form,’ he said. ‘If there is the opportunity for a reset in relations, then good – but that requires goodwill on the part of the Westminster government.’

It wasn’t solely the current Conservative government that Flynn was addressing, but the Labour party too. ‘When we’re talking about the damage caused by Brexit,’ he said, ‘and the fact that Scotland wants to take a different route, there needs to be some respect and understanding in relation to that. That’s not just true of Rishi Sunak, it’s also true of Keir Starmer as well. We need to see movement from both the Westminster parties in that we are willing and able to operate as good-faith actors.’

‘I think the challenge now is for the Labour party to start listening to people in Scotland,’ he said, urging Starmer’s party ‘to change its tack in relation to single market access’ and ‘to really empower the Scottish parliament when it comes to the devolution of powers’.

And on the Union? Flynn is keen to see current levels of support for independence grow, agreeing that it was ‘important’ that the conference to discuss Sturgeon’s de facto referendum plan ‘didn’t happen’. Echoing what both Yousaf and Kate Forbes said throughout the SNP leadership contest, Flynn advocated for the need to see consistent majority support in the opinion polls for independence. When asked what kind of figures he would want to see, he avoided exact numbers, instead saying: ‘I think a sustained majority over a sustained period of time is the best way to frame it.’

In the current climate the SNP may be better to focus on retaining support for their own party, never mind independence. Flynn appeared relaxed this afternoon, but with recent polls showing public support for the SNP has slumped – and the SNP a mere eight points ahead of Labour – nationalists can only hope that there are few uncomfortable revelations left to come out.

Labour’s sewage scheme backfires

It seems that the Starmer army have once again been caught trying to be too clever by half. Earlier today, Labour sought to exploit Tory woes over sewage by tabling a motion in an opposition day debate. The motion called for the government to set a target for the reduction of sewage discharges, implement financial penalties and carry out an impact assessment of such discharges.

Stung perhaps by the debacle of October – when an opposition day debate ultimately precipitated Liz Truss’s resignation – the government opted to not object to those arguments. However the Labour motion included a fourth part that would have given the opposition the ability to take control of the Commons order paper in future and introduce legislation of their own. The Tories instead  submitted their own amendment backing Labour’s first three points but dropping the fourth that would have given the opposition the freedom to change the law. 

The Labour whips appear to have not realised that the government’s new amendment would end up being voted on first under parliamentary rules because it merely deleted text rather than added to it. The government passed its amendment by 290 votes to 188 and then forced a division on the opposition day motion as it now stood. Labour MPs were then told to abstain on their own opposition day motion because the government had successfully amended it in their favour. 

In the end, Labour’s opposition day amendment passed with 286 votes thanks to Tory MPs. The Conservatives can now claim that Labour MPs refused to back plans to reduce sewage discharge, as their own motion originally called for. What a waste by Labour…

Desperate for love: Very Cold People, by Sarah Manguso, reviewed

‘My parents were liars,’ the narrator Ruthie says at the beginning of Sarah Manguso’s unsettling debut novel. Looking back on her abusive childhood in a New England town near Boston in the 1980s, she recounts how her father wore a fake Rolex that didn’t work, and her narcissistic mother was obsessed with social climbing, pinning the wedding announcements of local Mayflower descendants on the fridge as if she knew them. Ruthie observes everything in high definition, from her parents’ neglect (‘I have no memories of being held’) to their naked bodies flopping on top of each other while they all share the same bed. In a disturbing scene, her mother, who seems to have been traumatised by her own upbringing, asks her elementary school daughter to spell the f-word.

Manguso excels at capturing the perspective of a child desperate for the love of people who don’t know how to give it. When Ruthie gets braces, her mother pulls puffy-lipped faces at her. ‘She wanted me to know I was ugly,’ Ruthie decides. ‘She was helping me get ready for the world.’

The novel’s backdrop simmers with menace. The gravestones of dead children are ‘gray, crooked teeth inscribed with little lambs and angels’, and autumn brings the ‘slap-clatter of crows’. Rumours spread about the town’s police officer, who molests a boy by ‘accident’. The suffocating societal pressures of growing up as a female in America are also carefully drawn. By the sixth grade, the girls peel off their fingernails, and Ruthie’s pockets are stuffed with paper napkins containing unswallowed meals. ‘I don’t dress for myself; I dress for boys,’ one schoolfriend tells Ruthie; we find out later that ‘she woke up in a strange place, bleeding’.

Manguso’s non-fiction books – Ongoingness: The End of a Diary (2015) and 300 Arguments (2017), in particular – are known for their verse-like use of white space and text. Very Cold People is also made up, to powerful effect, of poised, cumulative fragments. Gaps swell uncomfortably with unsaid, secretive, confusing horrors, leaving the reader to fill in the blanks with their own imagination. In one vignette, Ruthie notices that her friend’s father lets himself into the bedroom where the girls are playing, and ‘looked at me and smiled and said, Having fun?’ After a blank space, Ruthie recalls the red umbrella with tiny white dots she was given for her birthday.

‘You can learn to eat violence,’ Ruthie thinks. Her town, full of ‘very cold people’, serves as proof that we can’t.

Anorexia has a long history – but are we any closer to understanding it?

In 1992, a few weeks after her 14th birthday, Hadley Freeman stopped eating. Nothing very dramatic caused this. A skinnier classmate at her all-girls school in London told her: ‘I wish I was normal like you.’ But the comment triggered a change that was dramatic in the extreme. Within weeks, Freeman was monitoring every crumb that entered her mouth, opening the fridge just to smell the food, making her house quake as she did star jumps over and over again. Within months her weight had plummeted and she was sent by her frantic parents to a doctor. She was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and lived in various psychiatric wards for the next two and a half years.

She is now a journalist, formerly at the Guardian, currently at the Sunday Times. Her previous book, House of Glass, recounted her Jewish family’s experience of the 20th century, and was brilliant. Good Girls looks inwards – or, as she admits in the introduction, at her own belly button – and it’s excellent too, if in a different way. Reading it will leave you amazed that Freeman has made such a success of her life. She came horribly close to losing it. When she was at her illest, a GP told her mother to prepare for her death. At some points she was so thin that her spine would bleed as she did sit-ups, and so bald that a woman in the street asked her if she had cancer.

The book gracefully interweaves sections on the science of anorexia with Freeman’s account of getting ill, as well as stories from other women she met in hospital and has since tracked down. This is grounded in a history of the disease, which turns out to be quite a long one. It’s tempting to think of anorexia as a modern phenomenon, related in some misty way to fads such as social media and heroin chic. But anorexia has been around for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The first recorded anorexic, Freeman recounts, was a princess now known as Saint Wilgefortis, whose father decided to marry her off to a foreign king sometime between 700 and 1000 AD. Determined to remain a virgin, she stopped eating. Her suitor was put off, so her irritated father had her crucified. After her death she became the subject of veneration: people would leave her wistful offerings of oats.

Treatment has become more humane since Freeman got ill in the early 1990s, but we aren’t much closer to understanding anorexia, or to sending it packing when it sets in. Rates have remained more or less steady for years. It’s still an overwhelmingly female affliction, and it’s still impossible to predict who will succumb or who will make a recovery. Freeman herself has been given all sorts of nutty reasons for her illness: that she developed it because she was born by caesarean; because her parents were too strict; because they were too indulgent; because she was Jewish and inherited trauma from the Holocaust. If anything, she writes, her anorexia was an attempt to stop time. Newly 14, she was becoming a woman. She didn’t want ‘a bum or a tum or a chin’; she wasn’t ready for male attention (not long before she got ill a boy had disturbed her by putting his hand on her bottom). She learned that by not eating she could erase herself, freeze her ripening body in bud.

Her book is at its most enjoyable – if enjoyable is quite the word – when she relates her time on the psychiatric wards. Many of her fellow anorexics were gentle creatures – the ‘good girls’ of the book’s title – some of whom died. A few were conniving monsters. Tara, a 27-year-old, delighted in finding out how much other patients weighed and gloating if she was lighter than them. Caroline, a devout Christian, would flick her food towards the plates of fellow patients, then watch with relish as they were made to eat what she had sent their way.

A lot of the hospital stories are depressing, and the book isn’t exactly a picnic. I kept trying to read it over lunch and found for some reason it kept killing my appetite; but it’s absolutely worth reading, whether you have an interest in anorexia or not. There’s a solid redemption narrative to cling to. The teenage Freeman eventually realises she doesn’t want to be in a ward forever and gets – slowly, slowly – better. And it’s engaging, intelligent and occasionally funny, written with the author’s characteristic clarity. You’ll be left glad that she at least climbed out of the wolf’s mouth and recovered fully enough to be able to tell us what it was like.