High life
A season of small talk
Taki
Now there is nothing like a child's smile when he or she feels a bit embarrassed when meeting adults. It's innocence, sweet- ness and beauty personified. Frances and her friend had wide smiles on but said nothing. So I introduced them to Charlie Glass, as the only man to have escaped from his captors in Beirut, and their eyes went even wider. Then we spoke about the Speccie. Frances has been reading it since she was 12.
Afterwards her father came up and said hello. I had never met him before. He goes by the name of Lord Snowdon. He con- firmed that Frances is a regular Spectator reader. I will pay back his kindness by say- ing that many of the royals could take a les- son from Tony Snowdon when it comes to dignified behaviour,. He has worked his You-know-what off since his divorce, has never spoken to the hacks, and, most Important of all, has behaved impeccably. Last but not least, he encouraged his little girl to read The Spectator.
There is nothing that will make an old sinner stop sinning quicker than a meeting with children — or when representing The Spectator, which I did the next evening at the Louis Vuitton Concours d'Elegance, at the Hurlingham Club. This has now become a fixture, almost as much of one as my unsuccessful pursuit of Kate Reardon, whom for the third year in a row I escorted to the bash, and for the third year in a row got a crummy goodnight handshake for my troubles. This was the bad news, Miss Reardon refusing to sin. The good news was that I sat next to Countess Poklewski Koziell, an Irish lady married to a Pole, who quickly made me forget Kate. Until her hubby took her home, that is.
Needless to say, this is the time of year when there are more parties than there are smiling wallet-lifters in Wall Street. All one needs is lotsa silk shirts and a new liver. Alas, my doctor has informed me I have to have both elbows operated on, as they have deteriorated to such an extent, I literally cannot lift a bottle. The alternative is to remain a cripple. Amazing what sport does for one. I have now had knee and shoulder operations, both legs and both hands oper- ated on, and now the elbows. And, of course, it could be much worse. Just think of that poor Christopher Reeves. Instead of it happening to James Hewitt — who gave the impression his jock strap was lined with chinchilla at Hurlingham — Superman drew the short straw. Horses, I guess, are more dangerous than cars. I was once unhorsed by Mark Vestey in Cirencester, but lucked out. Very soon after he fell while hunting and has been in a wheelchair ever since.
Exactly four years before that, I was playing a practice game at the Bagatelle Club in Paris, when Elie de Rothschild got hit by a ball and lost his eye. Probably my closest South American friend, Francisco Soldati, whose widow is now the Aga Khan's squeeze, was killed four years ago stick and balling with his children. Which Emma Soames dicl, (stick and ball) on my A damaging leek favourite pony exactly 25 years ago, when her dad was ambassador to Frogland. Although a good rider, she tried to hit a ball, having proclaimed it looked easy, and almost severed my pony's front leg.
Previous page
