Rich Tapestry
IT WAS an especial pleasure to make the acquaintance of the younger generation of Mitfords. Across the table from me was the anorexic Pecca, habitually toying with her food. In a corner, flirting with a sous-chef, was Necca. Hacksaw in hand, daubing slogans in blancmange on the restaurant walls, was the anarchistic Recca. Finally, under the table, performing the mid-day worshipping rites of her beloved Kurdish fundamentalist sect, came young Mecca, the first full-blooded Muslim Mitford. Sad- ly, the only brother, Becca, was away playing tennis at the time.
From this delicious encounter with the Mitfords en masse, I consider myself a changed man, a man much more able to revel in his own idiosyncracies. I am searching for a suitably outlandish cigarette holder, have taken to wearing slip-on shoes, and speak animatedly of my preference for the colour pink. Already I am creating quite a stir. We English, you see, simply love a true eccentric.
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