From Great Boredom Come Great Tales

When indolence becomes intolerable, remembrances of things past become a lifesaver. Charles Moore’s recent Spectator notes also helped; for example, his stories about the 94-year-old Lady Penn, who is the Queen of England’s closest childhood friend. It must be at least thirty years or so ago, but it had slipped my mind because at the time I had been under the influence and without sleep. Then about twenty years ago, in New York, the designer Carolina Herrera rang me to invite me to a dinner for Prue Penn, who was staying with her and her husband. When introduced to Lady Penn, she laughingly told me that we had met before when “you tried to pick me up at 10 in the morning in a petrol station on the M4.” My host looked shocked, but Prue went on to say that I had been very funny and charming, dead drunk but all spruced up, and had invited her to Badminton House for lunch, and as a kicker had also proposed introducing her to the King of Greece.

Certain words or images can jolt one’s memory, and the mention of the petrol station brought some of it back. I was on my way to the ducal house of Badminton for lunch, after one of those unfortunate nights of old, and had noticed an attractive lady stopping for gas. I think or perhaps imagine she had a green or light blue scarf. The rest is a blur, including the name-drop of my King. And that’s it. Lady Penn thought it very amusing despite the fact she did not take up my offer. [1080p HD & Audio Comp... Buy New $459.99 (as of 02:27 UTC - Details)

And then there’s Hylton Murray-Philipson, and his wonderful recovery from the virus that was reported in the British press. I’ve never met Hylton, but I had been sweet on his sister Cornelia. Speaking to him on the telephone with her some 35 years ago, he told us a story about a Syrian-born ex–belly dancer, Patricia Kluge, who had married one of America’s richest men, John Kluge, and while ringing Hylton from Virginia had announced that their shooting party had killed five boars. “Gosh, I hope no one we know,” answered Hylton. She didn’t get it. The lady married Virginia’s African-American governor Wilder after Kluge divorced her.

Once the memory gets off the pot, all sorts of goodies suddenly appear. My great friend Timmy Hanbury had introduced me to Cornelia soon after he had commandeered an enormous bus idling in front of Annabel’s full of Japanese tourists. (The driver had gone out to the middle of Berkeley Square to relieve himself.) Timmy drove around for a while, then ran out of room in a mews, abandoned the bus while the tourists screamed for help, and returned to the bar. When the fuzz arrived, Sidney the barman vouched that “Mister ’anbury ’ad never left the club.” The cops were certain they had their man, and they knew Sidney was covering up, but such are the joys of people who worked for Mark Birley. (Timmy had to offer a silver cup in return, presented every year to the winner of the once-around-the-square race held at exactly 4.a.m.)

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