DIARY
JENNIFER PATERSON here is a very big threat on the horizon; in fact it is already here, lurking about, ready to pounce on any of us at any moment. Far worse than all the nanny- state warnings about meat, butter, all fats and anything delicious including alcohol being the way to dusty death, this is the real McCoy and we must all kick up a hell of a fuss with our MPs so that they will harry the Ministry of Ag. and Fish. It is the terrifying threat and actuality of salmonella poisoning coming from the consumption of any egg yolk that has not been cooked through and through like a hard-boiled egg. You may remember a large amount of people were felled at the House of Lords after a summer party which had included mayonnaise and mousses in the menu. Luckily everyone recovered after a very nasty bout of the illness, but if it is contracted by the very young or very old or already sick the poisoning can result in death, and as the versatile and much loved egg has always been a nutritious food for all these categories someone in authority should make some definite statement. Apparently the disease is endemic to large amounts of laying hens, especially those brought up in batteries, but no one seems to be sure where it has come from or why. Perhaps it is another sinister ailment pro- duced from refuse, like the seals with their new distemper. It may be in the food they eat. The large producers are very worried, as well they might be. It will be farewell to all the hollandaise, bearnaise, mayonnaise sauces, all souffles and chocolate mousses and all the other mousses. There is the dreadful thought we may all have to revert to powdered egg as in wartime. We used to make mayonnaise in the war with dried egg and liquid paraffin: it must have been horrendous but we thought it brilliant and certainly better than salmonella. So Ag. and Fish, what have you to say? I am still eating eggs, but for how long?
Istarted cooking lunches for The Specta- tor in May 1977 and ceased to do so in September this year, so it was quite a long haul, changing owners four times, but editors only once — quite an interesting average. I was very delighted and intrigued to be invited to one of the famous Punch lunches last Friday to see how the other half fared. They have a much larger dining-room than ours with an enormous table which seats about 24 people, also their aspirations are much grander, with two waiters serving, boxes of cigars and cigarettes on offer, decanted port at the ready as well as brandy, three different wines and a large bar to choose from before lunch; but if anything they are even dottier than us. Michael Heath had invited Christopher Howse and myself and neither of us was among the place names at the table until a bit of whispering and shuffling by a pretty secretary made some miracu- lous order. Even then Christopher was written down as C. Sloane, a splendid name, no doubt, but not his own. Howev- er, everyone was very nice and cheerful, Sheridan Morley a dream in dove-grey looking like an operatic tenor ready for take-off. Russell Davies, resembling Mephisto, gave me an enormous drink and finally our host Heath wandered in with the saturnine Stanley Reynolds, both dres- sed in black; having been to Mr ffolkes's funeral. Michael downed a drink, then left, never to be seen again. I sat next to that tiny Napoleon of a man, Cyril Ray, who told me not to eat anything, as it would all be foul and frozen except for the good cheeses. He ate two little pieces of rolled bacon. Actually it was the sort of lunch you get when taken out from school to the local country hotel. Cyril Ray was a war corres- pondent amongst many other things, drove into Paris in a tank and was pipped at the post trying to interview General Patton by our beloved Sam White who had already cornered the pistol-packing soldier in his own tank, At the end of lunch Russell Davies told us who we all were and opened the field for some light banter, but most of the talk was about choosing the next editor, who has to be between 30 and 40; I wonder why. I do hope they find someone brilliant and congenial and wish them all the luck in the world. It must be very difficult to produce a magazine of mirth
time after time, but it would be very sad to see the end of such an old friend.
When you consider how many hours of television are shown every day and night it is quite extraordinary that there are not more repeats. The time it takes to produce a moment of actual picture is incredible. I got involved with the television people yesterday. They were making a program- me about people who ride motor-bicycles and they were interested in my old hel- mets. I was told to arrive at the Waldorf Hotel at 9.15 a.m. plus helmets and motor- bike. We met in a grand dining-room where they were setting up all their lights and paraphernalia — a charming director with white hair called Nyge, his lovely lady assistant, the interviewer, the continuity girl and three sweet and tireless men who worked the sound, camera and lighting. I was sat at a table with the bouncy inter- viewer (another Jennifer, which got a bit muddling, but luckily she answered to Jenny) and attached to a wire which ran up my shirt and ended in a tiny microphone. The helmets were arranged on the table and off we went with our little interview. If any of this is shown on television rather than ending on the cutting-room floor I should think it would fill about a minute of showing time, but we left that room at about 11.45 having done retake after re- take. Two and a half hours of concentrated work from seven professionals. They very kindly said I was very good at not being frightened of the camera, but frankly I never knew which machine was the camera, there were none of those great big machines that you see on studio floors. We then moved out into the street with all the equipment and spent another three quar- ters of an hour taking a shot of me driving up to the hotel, dismounting and entering. As there is a very busy bus-stop just outside the hotel I was lucky to escape with my life, let alone limb.
Everyone keeps telling me how good Marks & Spencer's fobd is. As I don't live near one of their establishments I had never tried it until recently when I was presented with a paella which had no flavour of any of its ingredients, some tasteless asparagus, and a fine grouse bird with instructions to cook it to death, and a receipt for bread sauce with no cloves stuck in the onion and no grated nutmeg to embellish it. I think I'll stick to the market.
How come I have never been called to be a juror? I seem to be the only person I know who would relish the job: I should be
a perfectly good woman and true. I
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