DIARY
NICHOLAS COLERIDGE Before last week I had never heard of `the Shettles method'. And then, as often seems to happen with a new theory, it was explained to me three evenings in succes- sion by different excited overnight con- verts. The Shettles method is the invention of Landrum B. Shettles, an American expert in family planning affiliated to Columbus University, who has written a book called How to determine the sex of your child. Although this manual is so far available only in the United States, large quantities have found their way to the gentrified streets of Battersea, Clapham and Fulham, where the importance of producing a male heir to inherit the mort- gage is, of course, paramount. Mr Shettles claims a 90 per cent success rate if you follow his instructions. Some of these are a shade over-biological for casual readers, but in order to ensure a son the father must abstain utterly from sex from the time that his wife's period ends until the moment of Peak ovulation, then drink a cup of strong black coffee an hour before intercourse, and finally make love to her 'doggy fashion' (as the Battersea mothers put it; Landrum B. Shettles puts over the same message in a rude drawing). Mr Shettles has another theory in his book that I find even more disturbing. Stress, particularly work-related stress, lowers the male sperm count, so an insanely hardworking banker, stockbroker, bond dealer or even journal- ist is most likely to produce a daughter. By the same token a relaxed, non-working, laid-back father with his spectacular but undeserved sperm count will in all likeli- hood produce a son. This seems very unfair on workaholics. In 18 years' time my dozens of daughters will have nobody to cavort with other than the sons of drop- outs, squires and wonderfully charming idlers.
Some Indian friends, who live in Calcut- ta but fly to Delhi every month for a few days' work, are amused by the cut-throat hotel wars that have erupted there over the last six months. Normally, whenever they are in Delhi, they stay at the Taj hotel, where they invariably take the same small suite. Lately, however, the refurbished Oberoi hotel has adopted a remarkably aggressive sales policy, apparently de- signed to poach the Taj's longstanding Customers. Their intelligence-gathering is remarkable. A couple of months ago our Calcutta friends were sitting at home when the telephone rang. 'Hello, it is the Oberoi hotel speaking. We hear that you are Considering making a visit soon to Delhi. Can we suggest that you stay with us this time and not at the Taj.' Our friends were initially reluctant to change horses, but so persistent was the honey-voiced girl from
the Oberoi that they decided to give it a try. No sooner had they unpacked, howev- er, than the telephone rang in their strange suite. 'Hello, it is the Taj hotel here. We think you are making a big, big mistake, and would like to send a car to collect you and your luggage this very minute.' No,' replied our friends. 'Now that we're here we'd like to see what the Oberoi is like.' But the next morning the Taj were back on the line. 'You see,' said another honey- voiced public relations person, 'you have tried your experiment but you don't like it very much. Our car has already set off to collect you.' And so it had. And our friends, suddenly homesick for their old suite, meekly got into the Taj's limo and were driven back, where half the hotel's staff of managers and bellhops were lined up to greet the prodigal guests. How did the Taj's people know our friends had checked into the Oberoi? And how, in- deed, did the Oberoi know they were planning a jaunt to Delhi? The theory is that both hotels have infiltrated informers into the reception and reservation desks of their competitors, who constantly report for a few rupees a day. How long, I wonder, before similar tactics are adopted by Mr Rocco Forte and Sir Hugh Wontner, and guests unpacking at the Grosvenor House are wooed into defecting by a PR from the Savoy, or vice-versa.
The Cotswold village at which we rent our cottage is fairly typical in its mix of villagers. About a third, including us, appear for two or three days a week, part of which time we spend speeding for two hours up and down the M40. The rest of the village seldom leaves the place. The other day a neighbour of ours, a mother aged about 30 whose child has just begun school, was considering accepting a part- time job now that she's got some spare time. The job was in Bourton-on-the- Water. 'Are you going to take it?' we asked. 'I don't think so,' she replied. 'Not with all that travelling to and fro, it don't seem worth it.' Bourton is three miles away, a 12-minute ride in a rackety Pulhams bus. Recently there was great excitement, however, when the local school announced its daring intention of taking a coach-load of children to see London for the day. The trip was much discussed, especially when it was decided that several local mothers could accom- pany the children as extra chaperones, including a mother from our village who had never previously seen the capital. When they returned, I asked how it had gone, half-fearful lest my home town had overwhelmed the school trip with its gla- mour and glitz. 'Terrible,' she replied, 'we never did see such a terrible place. We drove past Buckingham Palace and then we drove past St Paul's Cathedral and never saw such dirt and traffic. The best bit was going to Heathrow and watching aero- planes taking off from the roof of Terminal 4. But I won't go to London again, and the children don't want to either.'
There is consternation in Stow-on-the- Wold, where we do our shopping at weekends, because the car park has been invaded by scores of gypsies and their caravans. The gypsies were certainly ex- pected, since they are permitted to camp in the car park for the annual Stow horse fair, but not until next week; they have arrived early, misled over the correct date of the fare by Horse & Hound magazine. Horse & Hound, it seems, publishes a calendar of forthcoming horse fairs, and a single slip has led the hordes of gypsies to arrive prematurely from all over the country. Now the local Cotswold District Council is split over what action to take, and exactly how many extra litter sacks and large wheeled dustbins will be needed to cope with the gypsies' elongated stay. What impresses me is that England's gypsies are such keen readers of Horse & Hound. If I worked in their advertising department I don't know whether I'd hush this up, or boast about it. What other magazine can prove so dynamically its reader-response? It must be comforting for the manufactur- ers of horse-trailers and polo sticks to know that their big colour advertisements are being so carefully scrutinised by roma- nies and tinkers. The new, yuppie, Horse & Hound-subscribing gypsy has certainly made an impression on Councillor Rex Williams, as reported in the Cotswold Journal. 'The true gypsy, with his small caravan and a couple of horses, always parked on the verges and would not use the car park,' he said. 'It is the new travellers with their large posh caravans and Range Rovers who will go there.'
Nicholas Coleridge is Editorial Director of Conde Nast Publications.
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