Diary

Monday and Tuesday I gave over to two long conversations with Arvid Ågren, a Swedish biologist who wants to write a scientific biography of me. As the author of The Gene’s-Eye View of Evolution, he knows the subject inside out. Disconcertingly, he seems to have read every word I’ve ever written, and has an almost telepathic familiarity with my entire stock of humorous anecdotes. I wouldn’t put it past him to divine what my mother, who died at 102, would certainly have said: ‘But I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to write a biography of you?’ He’s now going to start looking for a publisher, and she would no doubt want to wish him luck. I’m reminded of a nice publicity campaign for one of Douglas Adams’s books.

George Osborne was originally meant to fill this slot. We were always rather mean to him when he was chancellor (deservedly so) so it pains me to admit what a good diary writer he is: always stylish, engaging, ready to spill some beans. He had agreed, but then suddenly pulled out, leaving us scrambling. Something had come up, he said. But what? The next day’s papers brought the news: he has been hired to advise the Emiratis in their bid to buy this magazine and the Telegraph. To write for us and sell us at the same time may have been a bit much, even for this famously adept multitasker. I’d love to know what advice Osborne is giving the UAE. The Emiratis stand to be the first government in the world to buy a national newspaper in another country, so it’s a test case.

Newly returned from the best ever New Year in Scotland, I walk down Portobello Road and waft through nostalgia. All those felted hats in primary colours and Mongolian knits with floral patterns. The smell of frying falafel, dodgy hash and second-rate coffee. It takes me back to Hull fair, seven decades earlier, with my gloves dangling from elastic on the sleeves of my nap coat and a scarlet face full of vinegary, newspapered chips. I realise it is the first time in a while that I have moved slowly in a crowd without carrying a banner saying ‘Bring them home’ and shouting: ‘Shame on Hamas.

To the Garrick, for a festive feast with my dear ex-husband and offspring. My daughter and I decide to make the pilgrimage from Turnham Green by taxi, owing to a combination of torrential rain, vulnerable blow-dries and high heels. Schoolgirl error: we could have flown to Manchester in roughly the same length of time – and at a fraction of the price. Thank you, Sadiq Khan. What a splendid job you’ve done turning London into a giant car park. We eventually arrive, half an hour late, dodging the garish rip-off rickshaws blaring headache-inducing yuletide tunes which now infest the West End (again, take a bow, Mr Khan), and enter the wood-panelled sanctuary.

In Chekhov’s The Seagull Dr Dorn is asked which is his favourite foreign city. Genoa, he replies: in the evening the streets are full of strolling people and you became part of the crowd, body and soul. ‘You start to think there really might be a universal spirit,’ he says. I remembered Dr Dorn when I was discovering Genoa in October. Then it suddenly came to me that I had been to the city before. Genoa was where my family embarked for the Far East, when I was 18 months old, fleeing the Nazis. I don’t know about the universal spirit, though. I’m reading Enemies and Neighbours: Arabs and Jews in Palestine and Israel, 1917-2017 by Ian Black. I had reached 1953 when at midnight a text pinged in from an old friend: ‘Who will cross the street when we pass?

This week I have been working with the great Dame Judi Dench. We have been rehearsing a song by Noël Coward for a show we are doing together at the Royal Albert Hall next Friday. Judi met Sir Noël not long before he died in 1973. What she remembers best is his amused smile and the strong scent of the fragrance he wore. Whenever I think of him, I recall his wise advice to anyone confronted with unfair criticism: ‘Rise above it.’ I hope that is what the King is going to do in the face of the bewildering brouhaha that has come with the publication of Omid Scobie’s book Endgame. Charles is not a racist. Not remotely. Anyone who has spent any time with him over any number of years will tell you that. I don’t know if Scobie-Doo has met him. In fact, I am not sure who he has met.

One reason Nigel Farage is currently making such a successful Jungle Jim is because he doesn’t duck a discussion or swerve a question. Camp-mates – and viewers – may not like what he says, but they appreciate the direct response. It makes a change from most politicians. It doesn’t matter what question you ask them: if they can dodge it, they will. It’s almost a reflex and it drives me potty when I’m co-hosting Good Morning Britain. Me: ‘What’s the weather doing where you are, minister?’ Minister: ‘I want to pay tribute to the work of the Met Office. Without these skilled men and wom…’ Me: ‘I just want to know what the weather’s like there.’ Minister: ‘Please allow me to finish.

My instantly infamous interview with Jeremy Corbyn, in which he refused 15 times to say if Hamas is a terrorist organisation, prompted many to ponder what on earth possessed him to do it in the first place? After all, the modern-day Wolfie Smith must have known I’d ask him the same question I’d asked many guests during the crisis, and his spluttering determination to avoid stating such a basic fact – well, unless you work at the BBC – made it obvious what he thinks and was always going to earn him the opprobrium his terror appeasement deserved. Rishi Sunak hammered him in PMQs, and Keir Starmer declared Corbyn will never stand as a Labour MP again. That wasn’t the only lifetime ban dished out: ‘I’M NEVER COMING BACK ON THIS SHOW!

It’s a week for improbable comebacks. The Beatles are back at number one, Chelsea are scoring goals again and David Cameron is in Downing Street. The return of my friend to the front line is a Rishi Sunak relaunch that I can warmly welcome. There is a lot of goodwill out there just waiting for our current Prime Minister to find his groove. Now he’s given up trying to appease the unappeasable nationalist right, or claiming to be better than all that’s gone before, he has a decent chance of being listened to. Not every occupant of No. 10 would have had the courage to appoint a predecessor – the last three have all suffered from tall poppy syndrome.

The Victoria and Albert Museum kindly threw me a leaving party after eight years as chair, plus a particularly apt present: a specially commissioned illuminated V&A logo made from powder-coated steel by the designer Toby Albrow. The logo is a reference to my megalomaniacal taste for giant logos atop museum buildings. We have placed a huge one on the roof of the Young V&A in Bethnal Green, and an even bigger one – 20 feet high – on the new V&A East in Stratford, visible from three miles away in Canary Wharf. What an exhilarating and happy gig the V&A has been. I’m going to miss it and the people. They hung my leaving portrait in the directorate corridor six weeks early, just to remind me it was over.

Once a week, my husband and I have the same argument about AI. His position is the popular one: we’re all doomed. There’s nothing humans can do that AI won’t do better. Might as well prostrate ourselves at their articulated feet. Oh, and writers will be the first to be made redundant. Obviously, this is rubbish – at least where the written word is concerned. Yes, the bots can write best man’s speeches and thank-you letters, but have you ever read those speeches and letters? This week, a great piece of supporting evidence landed in my lap. After having a surprisingly good set of passport photos taken at a printing shop, a friend had posted a glowing review of his photographer on the company’s web page. Within minutes, the following reply appeared online.

In 1975 I travelled as an undergraduate to Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and finally to Israel. I visited refugee camps and met a Palestinian militant, Bassam Abu Sharif, who had been blinded in one eye by a Mossad parcel bomb. I talked to policymakers in each country and heard a range of Israeli opinion. On return I wrote in the Jewish Chronicle of the need to address the plight of the Palestinians caused by their displacement. I made the case in favour of a two-state solution five years before the 1980 Venice declaration on Palestinian statehood. One of today’s many tragedies is that Hamas’s barbarism has pushed that solution even further from grasp. In principle, it remains the only way to end the chaos.

These are very odd times. The project of my life – The Merchant of Venice 1936, which sets Shakespeare’s play in East End London during the rise of Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts – was postponed because of Covid, but is now alive and kicking. It’s kicking hard. We’re on a ten-week tour and I’ve been moved beyond words at the reactions of audiences and critics. Yet for the last week, the production has had to have security men around keeping an eye on things. It’s like a dystopian nightmare. A Jewish actress putting on a play about anti-Semitism which needs to be made secure because of Jew-hating extremists. As one reviewer said: ‘Written in 1600, set in 1936, as relevant today in 2023.’ Ain’t that the truth.

On Monday night, still shaken from the weekend’s news, I went to a small dinner in the basement of a charming restaurant in Chancery Lane, with fellow supporters of the charity Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders). The brave MSF doctors and nurses are rather like fire-watchers in their turrets, scanning the world for where they are needed next before diving into danger at a moment’s notice. No war zone is too perilous. They have been entrenched in Gaza for years and are used to functioning under the most difficult conditions. This week, they had to work out of tented operating theatres, erected between bombed-out ruins, because ambulances cannot be used because of the risk of aerial bombardment.

Much fuss was made recently over the discovery of a painting by Artemisia Gentileschi, a near contemporary of Caravaggio’s, and the first woman to bring a successful rape charge in a Roman court. The painting of ‘Susanna and the Elders’ was found gathering dust in a storeroom at Hampton Court. Cleaned up and now glowing with colour, it is Artemisia’s take on an ancient Bible story. Two lecherous men catch Susanna naked while bathing. They blackmail her to have sex with them and, when she resists, falsely accuse her of adultery. The charge is thrown out by a judge. Susanna is vindicated and the men revealed as liars. Because a boldly depicted naked woman takes up so much of the canvas, many have assumed that it must have been painted by a man.

The past few weeks have been spent in the enclosed rehearsal spaces of the Ambassadors Theatre in London’s West End, preparing and finally opening in Private Lives. Shut off from the world as I am, we could have become a colony of North Korea for all I know. And yet some things do penetrate – who could fail to be horrified and appalled by the twin disasters in North Africa recently? These two devastating events have resulted in the deaths of an ever-rising number of tens of thousands of people. And yet they already seem to have dropped off our news coverage. Has the enormity of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami made the western world immune to such disasters? How can the latest news from the Strictly studio occupy more space in news outlets than Morocco or Libya? Madness.

With the boiling, broiling summer here in Provence now at an end, it’s time to start thinking about rehearsing for the tour of my one-woman show based on my new book, Behind the Shoulder Pads. The show opens in Newcastle next week. I’m looking forward to revisiting some of the places that I was evacuated to during the war. Cheltenham, for instance, where as a terrified six-year-old I had to start a strange new school all those years ago. In Brighton, I remember standing at the balustrade with my aunts, seeing the pebbled beach covered with barbed wire and wishing I could go swimming. It’s always fascinating to interact with audience members during the shows and the most fun part of the evening for me is when the audience ask me questions.

The co-host of my new podcast once threatened to sue me for libel. For my part, I did everything I could to put him on the dole. If we’d lived in Tudor times we’d probably have tried to get each other’s heads chopped off. Now Thursdays will be spent with Ed Balls, as we record our weekly show Political Currency. Earlier this summer he was dancing at my wedding. I told him I thought it was an extraordinary turn of events when I recall the ferocity of our old debates. ‘Remember how we hated each other, Ed?’ He corrected me. ‘That’s not true. You and Gordon Brown hated each other. David Cameron and I never liked each other. But you and I always had mutual respect.’ He’s right.

There is general excitement among the legions of fans of A Dance to the Music of Time: next week a plaque to Anthony Powell will be placed on 1 Chester Gate, the house where he started to write the many-volumed work of genius. I have a particular interest in attending, not only because Powell was married to my father’s sister Violet, but also because I took advantage of the relationship to lodge for several years in Chester Gate. This was when my parents chose to live maddeningly in Hampstead Garden Suburb and at the age of about 17 I was beginning to go to parties. Go to them? But how to return? That was the problem. No taxi would go so far. I batted my eyes in vain. Fortunately, Violet was one of the kindest and most tolerant people I have ever encountered.

There are few better locations to resist la rentrée than the wilds of Exmoor. The late August heather and gorse. The hidden coves. The bracken and this year’s superb crop of blackberries. Then the rain. So much rain (though of course the reliably incompetent South West Water still has a hosepipe ban in place). The only blot on the landscape remains Damien Hirst’s ill-conceived 65ft statue of ‘Verity’ – a flayed pregnant woman, with her innards on show, standing on a pile of books and holding a sword – which dominates Ilfracombe’s harbour. It exemplifies the worst of public-private art, lacking any meaningful connection to the history or culture of north Devon.