A n I alone (apart, of course, from Ffion) in thinking
that William Hague's looks have improved — that he is now, indeed, not half bad-looking? It is well known that many people, women as well as men, improve in appearance after their twenties, their faces becoming better defined and more characterful. Certainly, Hague's eyes, which have grown more humorous (with perhaps a hint of compassionate conservatism), are these days rather beautiful. Blair's, by contrast, have always been, and remain, close-set and wary.
It is fairly rare for members of the literary world to mix with people who work in industry. For example, almost the only occasions on which I ever meet anyone socially who actually makes and sells things are the annual literary-prize dinners — the Booker and the Whitbread — which are attended by as many business people as literati, and to which I am lucky enough to be invited. At the last Booker dinner I had a memorably interesting conversation with a manager at Birds Eye/Walls. We started by discussing petits pois, and he told me about the innumerable meetings and tastingS that take place to perfect the pea and ensure that Birds Eye keeps up with the ever-increasing demands of supermarkets. We then moved on to the subject of the delicious, low-calorie brand of Walls icecream, aptly named 'Too Good to be True', which contains 98 per cent less fat than ordinary ice-cream (and of which, I hope, one can eat 98 times more, particularly the chocolate flavour). And I was able to complain to him about the deteriorating texture of my favourite ice-lolly — the mini-milk — which has become rather cotton-woolly. He promised to look into the matter. I hope I sit next to someone equally enlightening at next week's Whitbread dinner.
Reading a proof copy of P.D. James's new novel, Death in Holy Orders (published in March), I came across what must surely be the first fictional mention of the Macpherson report. And, pace Boris Johnson's energetic defence of the report in this paper, it seems to me that the great crime writer has got to the heart of the matter.
'Detective Inspector Kate Miskin . had been brought up by a grandmother in the bleakest of inner-city areas and at the top of a high-rise building. Blacks had been her neighbours and her friends at school. To be told that she was a member of a force where racism was institutionalised had filled her with a passionate resentment which had changed her whole attitude to her job. . Kate said, "The report says that an act is racist if the victim perceives it as such. I perceive this report as racist — racist against me as a white officer. So where do I go to complain?"'
Put not your trust in travel agents. Last month we spent a week in Mauritius. We had chosen the location and the hotel entirely on the advice of a well-known travel agent ('world-class service, just for you'). Our requirements were crystal-clear, simple and oft-repeated: we wanted, above all, to swim in the sea. Everything else was secondary. We didn't like swimming in pools. The agent assured us that she knew the very place. When we got there, our hotel was indeed situated on a wonderful sandy beach: palm-trees swayed; the sea looked gloriously inviting. But why was no one swimming in it? We soon found out. The water, for as far as the eye could see, was only ankle-deep. At high tide it rose to just above the knee. Mauritius, we discovered, is surrounded by a giant reef sheltering 'shallow lagoons'. Good swimming is only
possible on the east or north of the island. Our hotel was on the west.
The celebrity culture has infiltrated almost all areas of journalism, but until recently the literary sections of newspapers were still relatively celeb-free zones. True, literary editors (myself included) have always leaped at any excuse — such as a passing mention of Kate Moss, say, or Liz Hurley in a review of a book deploring contemporary culture — to embellish their books pages with large pictures of these glamorous people. But it would have been unthinkable a few years ago to illustrate a review of a scholarly book about Shakespeare, for instance, with a picture of Ralph Fiennes, or a historical analysis of the Elizabethan era with a photograph of Cate Blanchett, or a study of Jane Austen with a mugshot of Kate Winslet. Now this kind of thing has become common practice. Why does it make me feel uneasy? After all, it is a way of linking the past to the present; and presumably the hope is that more people will be induced to read book reviews and thus discover the glories of literature or the fascination of history. On the other hand, it may just be a step towards a time when all books will be written by, for or about celebrities.
Iwas astonished to see Ben Elton. on Newsnight the other evening, being subjected to a cultural inquisition about the fact that he was allowing songs from the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical The Beautiful Game, for which Elton wrote the lyrics, to be performed at George W. Bush's inauguration party. Jeremy Paxtnan was at his most censorious, though good-humoured — the assumption being that Elton had committed some kind of crime and that he was in the dock. There wasn't even a token attempt to disguise the left-wing bias.
The rapid and, some say, irreversible decline of Marks & Spencer seems to me a complete mystery. Perhaps press coverage has got something to do with it. According to the City editor of the Times, Patience Wheatcroft, M&S shops are filled with 'rack upon rack of long skirts in dingy green'. Yet, looking around its flagship Marble Arch store the other day, I was struck by the attractiveness of the women's clothes. I bought a rust-coloured trousersuit from their Italian collection which could easily be mistaken for Nicole Farhi, and a canary-yellow cashmere sweater. There was not a dingy green skirt in sight.
Miriam Gross is literary editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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