Before a dinner to wish farewell to friends returning home to Bangkok, we gather for drinks at Durrants in Marylebone. I’d never been to this eccentric hotel, with its gentleman’s club air, all dark wood panelling and colonial artefacts, with a rifle mounted above the cosy bar.
But the friend who suggested it, a Filipino-Australian human rights lawyer, returned from the gents’ in dismay. “Oh no,” he said, “the greatest thing about this place is gone.” Using the hotel for work meetings when in London, he was always amused to hear Churchill’s war speeches, complete with battle noises, playing on a loop in the loo. What man wouldn’t relish fighting them on the beaches whilst zipping up his flies?
Curious, I ring Durrants to ask if Churchill was cancelled. “Well, we changed it a while ago,” the hotel receptionist said, “for the dialogue from Absolutely Fabulous. But since the pandemic we thought it safer to have nothing at all.”
Strained relations
What is the longest you’ve spent cooking something that turned out to be inedible? Until now I’d have said an onion chutney as viscous as bathroom sealant, which filled a cupboard until I chucked away six mouldy, uneaten jars. But the new contender is my attempt at membrillo, that sticky, Spanish jelly, delicious eaten with a hard, salty cheese. Friends presenting me with a bag of quinces from their tree warned that it’s a tricky fruit. Hard to peel and mainly core within, you boil then puree, then simmer for an hour, stirring all the while, then put low in the oven to dry out for another hour. Then you scrape carefully into the bin . . . Well, I did.
Far from a clear amber jelly, mine was mud-coloured with flecks of black (my husband, entrusted with stirring while I took a shower, forgot). Appearance wouldn’t matter if it tasted OK. But it was gritty and claggy, sticking to the roof of your mouth. Worse, membrillo costs only £3.80 for 140g and I probably spent more on gas. Next time I’ll take a family tip and strain it through old tights.
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Beast is still growling
The most gripping thing about the Blair-Brown BBC documentary was wondering what each would say about the other. How much animosity still burnt all those years on?
Tony Blair was affectionate about the growling beast with whom he shared a Westminster office. He credited Brown with teaching him how to make a Labour Party conference speech; what buttons to press to rouse the faithful. He related a meeting of world leaders after the 2008 crash when Nicolas Sarkozy ranted that no one knew what to do, and Barack Obama remarked: “Well, I think Gordon has a plan.” He gave Brown credit for rising to that key moment to which his whole life had led. Whereas Brown could barely bring himself to utter Blair’s name. What were Tony’s strengths? Brown’s jaw performed that odd jutting tic, over and over, until he finally forced out some strangulated generalities about how all political alliances have tensions. Oh Gordon, would it kill you to be gracious?
Blair had his usual messianic certainty but was happy to concede his failures and pay his debt to others. Whereas Brown, for all his deep integrity and intellectual heft, remained stubborn, bunkered, bitter, uncompromising. And herein is the reason why Blair won elections and Brown did not.
A modern courtesy
I took my seat for The Dante Project ballet at the Royal Opera House. “Excuse me,” said the elegant man sitting next to me. “Would you prefer me to wear a mask? I am happy to do so.” Like my neighbour and about 70 per cent of the audience, including many elderly, I was unmasked myself. “No,” I said, “that’s fine. But thank you for asking. Would you prefer me to wear a mask?” He replied that he would not. At this we both settled down for the (excellent) performance, modern courtesies fulfilled.