Dear Rowley,
As Glenda Slagg would have it, ‘Bradley Wiggins: crazy name, crazy guy’. Somebody really ought to tell the goggle eyed loon that yellow is really not his colour. Chapeau and all that for winning the Tour de France but that incautious reference to The Queen’s congratulatory telegram surely means bang goes the knighthood. Never liked sideburns, have you? Even on Elvis.
As for the Olympics, I’m still not feeling it and most certainly do not approve of that young British swimmer Tom Daley being portrayed as a sex symbol. There are giant blow-ups of him all over London wearing those skimpy little swimming trunks that finish an inch or two below the line of decency. He’s a paedophile’s dream and I don’t like it one little bit. It would be lovely to watch a little more Olympic coverage but I’m sadly far too busy and only have eyes for reruns of Deal or No Deal and the Series Two box set of Silk.
You’ll be expecting another black-bordered health bulletin to hang on the railings outside Bloomsbury Towers. Happily it is rather good news today. I saw an absolutely top top ENT professor at 150 Harley Street this morning who was charming, intelligent and actually listened to my concerns and expressed sympathy. It is not every day you get the opportunity to look inside one’s own head but today it happened thanks to a 3D CT head scan. Once scanned, the computer generated head could be cut in horizontal and vertical slivers rather in the spirit of that Plastinating doctor.
The prognosis? I am allergic to England. My sinuses are clean as a whistle but vulnerable to even a whiff of pollen, pollution, perfume, city or country air. The solution longterm is to move to the seaside and minimise my exposure to the Big Smoke. Who’d have thought it, eh? The professor was not cheap but he was worth every penny to be seen to and listened to with a sympathetic ear and a wise mind. He has now urged me to book an appointment with the Migraine Trust in Charterhouse Square. This I have done for the 14th of August. Hooray.
Reminds me of that marvellous Cole Porter song The Physician as sung by Pearl Bailey with lines such as ‘he was so ecstatic when I showed him my lymphatics but he never said he loved me’. Charterhouse Square is fascinating. In the Middle Ages it was the location of one of London’s most venerable monasteries and schools. The manor houe there belonged to Katherine Parr, the sixth and last wife of Henry VIII. I believe some of the Tudor buildings are tithe cottages for gentlemen who have done a great service to London. So there’s hope for us yet.
I’m still griping about the bloody Olympic Games and their negative effect on London’s West End. I like to see a well made man or woman wearing very little as much as the next chap but as for our international Olympic visitors, well, I’ve never seen such a dirty, fat and unhealthy looking bunch of people in my life. They are not Savile Row customers. In fact I’d hazard a guess they are even sub Primark. The Russians are the pits: boorish, arrogant and as dumb as a bowl of goulash. The Chinese scare me. Let’s face it, can you really respect a nation that genetically modifies its athletes?
So I think it is time to count a few blessings. I had another afternoon at No 17 Clifford Street with Anderson & Sheppard having spent the previous day at the bespoke shop at No 32 choosing trouser cloths for our special order books. I cannot tell you how marvellous it is to feel so at home in one of the great Savile Row tailoring shops learning the gossip from Clarence House and the excitement of new customers such as the legendary Hollywood director I cannot name and the head of state.
I was thinking an awful lot about my late friend Judy Bennett today. It was on Harley Street in the London Clinic that I last saw her and in the Regent’s Park that we used to walk and feed the black swans. It is near Queen Mary’s rose garden that Judy’s ashes were scattered. I was early for my Harley Street appointment so went for a walk in Regent’s Park and took some photographs of the herbaceous borders. The planting is exquisite. I will send the pics with my next letter.
Judy, Judy, Judy. I do miss her so very much. I’ve witnessed a lot of death over the years. You start thinking, like Bette Davis, who is next? Maybe it could be one. Apropos you, I’ve had a lovely invitation from St George’s Mayfair to attend the inaugural recital for the new organ. Can’t think of anything I’d rather attend with our friends Joan Rolls and Helen Ball. Until next time…