DIARY
JENNIFER PATERSON Icannot for the life of me understand all this fuss and criticism of the Duchess of York leaving her very small baby the Princess Beatrice at home while she is covering the Antipodes with her husband. You may or may not fancy the Yorks but one thing is for sure, they have a perfectly good home, well trained staff and I suspect a better than average nanny to look after their little one. A tiny baby is far better off keeping to fixed routine, and I very much doubt that it knows or cares who is dealing with its day-to-day needs as long as it is fed, washed, cleaned, hugged and allowed a bit of time for a good scream and perhaps some pleasant music every now and then, lullabies in the evening, Mozart or Handel for early morning awakenings. The idea of the child being taken to that terrible Australian sun, which is giving everyone skin cancer, is crazy for any child let alone a red-headed one. How do all these whin- ing do-gooders and complainers know what is best? No one does; all children are different and turn out different for better or worse despite their upbringing: just look around.
If these so-called child experts want something to get their teeth into, let them turn on some of the television advertise- ments which actively encourage bad be- haviour, and as television is always being accused of terrible influences on the young let them take their self-righteous cater- waulings to the right place. There is a washing soap advertisement proving to an idiot housewife that their product is best, !latch; she is, of course, agreeing with them and proudly boasting that her tablecloths get into such a mess because her disgusting kiddies bring action figures to the table and run them through the ketchup or beans or whatever filth they eat. Why are they allowed to bring toys to the table? Why doesn't the mother train the children? Why is it shown on television at peak time? Perhaps they should all be sent to Austra- lia, bound together in loving bonds for ever as the ultimate punishment. During the late unpleasantness, many mothers sent their children to America and Canada to get them out of the war. The ones I knew, Milo Cripps, David Queensberry and Michael Bishop all thought of it as a great adventure, no tears, no fuss and on return- ing were devoted to their mothers until their deaths, though the late Lady Bishop did remark on seeing her Canadianised sou, 'Can this be anything to do with us?' So lets just leave 'Fergie' and 13.E.A.' to their own devices.
Tea at the Ritz has always been consi- dered an excellent treat for visiting chil- dren or foreigners, and so it is, in that prettiest of hotels; but to my mind break- fast is even better. I was there last Thurs- day in the ravishing Marie Antoinette Suite to celebrate the launch of The London Ritz Book of Breakfasts by Helen Simpson, a beautiful creature of sweetness and grace befitting to her charming and explicit little book (very good Christmas present). We had a splendid breakfast, after the usual buck's fizz or fresh orange juice: compote of exotic fruits, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, Cumberland sausage, kid- neys, bacon, toast, croissants etc, etc. I thoroughly recommend it, sets you up for the long hours ahead. I always connect the Ritz with the dear departed Olga Deterd- ing who used to use the place as a home from home between various abodes. Ah, how the other half lives. She was always dieting or eating voraciously, in fact she could eat more than anyone I have ever
seen — her Russian blood, no doubt. I once saw her eat an entire leg of lamb and a Dundee cake at a sitting, but that was nothing to a little feast she once ordered to be sent to her Ritz suite. Feeling peckish and having no companion that evening, she ordered dinner for four with grouse as the main course, said it was a private affair and to leave the food on the trolly outside the suite, then wheeled it in herself and scoffed the lot, washed down with several bottles of claret. Now that's what you might call guts, real guts. Unfortunately food was the sad cause of her untimely death.
C
hristie's last week, Sotheby's this week. For the Chelsea Arts Club auction, an impressive affair organised by Mirjana Bukvic-Winterbottom who is one of the managers of the club. Do you realise that as late as the 1960s there were only about 300 paid up members, women were still prohibited from joining, the annual sub- scriptions were not covering the running expenses, the lease was running out and it was all getting very dodgy? Thanks to the Winterbottoms the place has been revolu- tionised. The membership has risen to 1,600 including women now, and much has been done to redecorate and repair the charming old house and to improve the club's facilities. A new 99-year-old lease has been secured, but there is a large bank loan. The auction, for which many mem- bers have donated their works, will pay off the bank loan with any luck and provide scholarships and grants to practising artists of all ages. The auction room was so full and so hot that I left after the first Flanagan tile had been sold for £340. I hope it boded well and that a huge profit was made; they deserve it. The final auction will be at the club itself this Thursday.
Iwonder what will happen to those extraordinary looking whales, even if they get to the open sea after all this time. I should think they will be in a pretty bad way as well as starving. The Eskimos are doing most of the useful work with their saws and picks, paradoxically chewing whale meat for nourishment, while the rest of the world are spending enormous sums of money advertising the fact and getting nowhere very fast. Even the Russians are getting into the act and being friendly. Perhaps that makes it all worth while.
Final tit-bit: I am told that Jeff Bernard bought his loss of virginity at an early age with his mother's clothing coupons. She was very cross with him indeed, but never ceased to love him.
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