It’s red pin time again. The Owenduff meanders through peat hags in Co Mayo towards the Atlantic. There are clumps of rhododendrons in blossom along its banks. A few scruffy sheep mooch about. The country looks devoid of any human habitation but on inspection there is a sprinkling of small houses.
My maternal grandmother is a Cator. If you’d like a thumbnail sketch the Cators are genetically rich and pathologically mean. There is probably no connection, although … My paternal grandmother is a Jameson – less rich and wildly generous. Continue reading An Uncle in the Strand
Following the death of Sir Gerald Kaufman a by-election was supposed to be held yesterday for his seat, Manchester Gorton. It has been deferred until the General Election next month. Continue reading By-Elections
I had a shock on Friday morning. Walking past Knightsbridge barracks I noticed two white vans by the entrance. There were three uniformed soldiers on the pavement and after I had passed I thought of going back to make sure they had checked the vans. Maybe I was over-reacting so I did nothing. At the Hyde Park Hotel I passed a mounted detachment of the Household Cavalry returning to barracks from ceremonial duties, in time for lunch. Continue reading Big Bang et cetera
In the Lyttelton, Hart-Davis letters, which I continue to relish, Rupert H-D reveals that he is a crossword fiend and wins many a prize. I have twice (non-swank) won the top prize from The Spectator. Continue reading Tringle Time
If you went to Eton you know what beaks are – if you didn’t, it is what the teachers are called. In 1959, in Bud Hill’s house, there were two extra beaks. Continue reading Dum and Dee
Mabel Strickland (1899 – 1988) has been dubbed the uncrowned queen of Malta, not unjustifiably. Continue reading Mabel Strickland and Uncle Ralph
When I lived at Barmeath I was a young dabbler in the stock market using my grandfather’s broker, Dudgeon, in Suffolk Street, Dublin. They were an old-fashioned firm whose partners were all known to my grandfather as friends or relations. On important occasions such as the Irish Derby there would be no partner in the office and so it was impossible to place a trade. When my brother moved back to Ireland in the 1970s more often than not they booked his trades to my grandfather’s account or vice versa; an Old School firm. Continue reading Are Brokers Human?
A recent comment reminded me that I was a vendangeur in 1972; cue for me to ramble on a bit about my “gap year”. Continue reading Get me to a Nunnery