I will miss Dolly Parton; one who truly deserves the title of ‘icon’. I met her a few times but the most memorable was in 1984 when I attended the premiere of her movie Rhinestone. I went by myself, which is unusual for me, but I had just told my then husband that I wanted a divorce after years of misery and verbal abuse. During the red-carpet ‘trek’ and photo shoot, Dolly noticed I looked a bit tear-stained and asked me if I was OK. When I told her that, despite being so unhappily married, it was still hard to adjust to life by myself, Dolly patted me on the shoulder and quipped: ‘Don’t worry, honey, husbands are like buses. If you wait long enough another one will come along.’ Dear Dolly, so wise. And in my case, so right.
As this long hot summer comes to a rainy end, I think back to those dog days when even walking brought on a Victorian swoon. We were in our house in the south of France for the horrible heat of July and August. During these months, we had cleverly invited approximately 30 or so family, friends and business acquaintances either to stay for a few days or to visit for lunch or dinner. We love them all, but after eight solid weeks of breakfast, lunch and dinner sit-downs, small talk and gossip, our heads were swimming. Besides, the sound of the cicadas rubbing their hands together almost drowned out all conversation, so the phrase ‘What did you say?’ was my most frequent contribution to the proceedings. It took a good two weeks to recover, not least from the extreme heat, which frankly I’m not accustomed to. Friends say to me: ‘Oh, but you’ve lived in LA for so many years, surely you must be used to the heat?’ The main difference this summer was the taxing humidity, which saps one’s breath. The continental heat we have been experiencing is quite unlike the dry California heat.
Another great icon who just died was Gloria Steinem. Ms Steinem was the leading light of my generation for women’s rights. She revealed the double standard to which so many women were exposed in the mid-20th century and made headlines by going undercover as a Playboy ‘bunny’ into Hugh Hefner’s fabled club. His magazine was the ultimate guide to exhibiting women in sexually explicit pictorials. ‘Ah, but!’ I hear you say. ‘You, Joan Collins, posed for Playboy yourself, did you not?’ Yes, I admit I did. But I had complete control of the content, I was photographed by the legendary George Hurrell and I was paid a huge amount of money.
For me, coming from a generation of actresses who were expected to pose for pin-up photos, Gloria’s essay about her time at the Playboy mansion and the sexual demands made of the bunnies, which skirted the edge of the law, was a revelation to such a degree that Hefner changed their working conditions. Gloria went on to become a beacon of enlightenment for women’s rights and never ceased to voice how women were used and abused by men. Women today owe Gloria Steinem so much.
I used to love travelling by plane and I would be filled with excitement and anticipation before a trip. Not any more. Today plane travel is hell – even to the continent, which used to be so easy. Our last trip from Nice to Heathrow took ten hours, thanks to flight delays, air traffic controller issues, red tape and the endless queues at immigration. ‘Take off your hat, your sunglasses, your jewellery, your shoes, your coat.’ I half-expected a Peter Sellers Pink Panther moment, where the person demanding these items would then take them and saunter away with a cheery wave and a ‘thank you’.
And after the Via Crucis of security comes the new customs and immigration palaver. Bad enough that you had to have a photo taken sans maquillage and with the flush of having to take off the above referenced items and put them back on in a hurry because the person behind you is breathing down your neck. Now you also have to place your fingers on an undoubtedly slimy green pad which always gives you a red ‘error’ signal on one of the fingers, no matter how much you adjust your hand pressure. Not only is this required on arrival, but also on departure. At least in America they only do it when you arrive. They couldn’t care less who you are or where you’re going when you leave.
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