Diary

The Australian morning TV host called me darlin’. We’d never met, but she opened with: ‘Good to have you on, darlin’. Be with you in a moment.’ Then the picture went black. When the live show returned to my Zoom screen, I was just another viewer, watching the three hosts seated on a couch half a world away chatting about the charity walk one of them had done over the weekend and the toll this had taken on his feet, which led – in a surprise twist – to a brief discussion of the strange internet hunger for images of feet. Somehow, the fetish conversation segued into a video montage with images of Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump and me from FBI days.

What a week it has been for cricket. It began with that scalding ICEC report on the ‘racist, sexist and elitist’ state of the game in England. This report was commissioned by Ian Watmore, briefly the chairman of the England and Wales Cricket Board, as a kneejerk reaction to Azeem Rafiq’s accusation of institutional racism. The report was presided over by Cindy Butts, who has been an activist for Black Lives Matter and perhaps has an axe to grind. As it stands, the report is devastating for English cricket, but much more needs to be known about the way in which it was put together and about the credentials of those who did so. I have spoken since its publication to a number of people who have played and been involved with the game for many years.

I’ve spent every evening of the past week in the midsummer gloaming, making the most of the longest days of the year. London has been en fête. The National Portrait Gallery’s long-awaited reopening was occasion for an enormous party, but I found it to be a weirdly disorientating experience. As an ex-trustee, for eight years I thought I knew the place pretty well. I could find my favourite portraits on autopilot, using a mental map of the different galleries. I had even worked with the team there on British Vogue’s 100th anniversary exhibition in 2016. But last week it was all change, as the whole place has been reconfigured by architect Jamie Fobert and director Nick Cullinan. They have created more natural light, new spaces and a different perspective on the collection.

Huge excitement last week, as archaeologists announced the discovery in Southwark of the best preserved Roman mausoleum ever found in Britain. I heard the news on the radio while driving with a friend, and both of us – living as we do south of the river – cheered. Shortly afterwards, I was invited on to the World Service to talk about Roman London. No sooner had the presenter introduced me than he was demanding to know about the mausoleum. I felt a lurch of horror. I realised I knew nothing, absolutely nothing about the mausoleum beyond what I had heard on the radio. ‘What did it look like?’ the presenter pressed. What to say? That it was big? Small? Mausoleum-y? In the event, I decided that honesty was the best policy. I put my hands up. I confessed my ignorance.

I’ll always remember where I was when my brother resigned again. I was sitting on the dock of a bay in the Adriatic, one G&T down (plus a couple of glasses of the cooling local white), halfway through the ‘signature menu’ of the Michelin-starred Alfred Keller restaurant, when that dopamine urge made me flip over my phone. Trump had been indicted on dozens of counts and Putin had committed ecocide in Ukraine and the honours list had been published and Nadine Dorries had quit after dark forces had prevented her passage to the Lords, while Rishi had backtracked and gong-blocked my father’s K… basically it was your average Friday. My phone had exploded. Carrie had WhatsApped me the statement. Breaking alerts.

The Coronation Street writers have produced 26 scenes to ease me out of the show for long enough for me to nip down to London to do a play for four weeks in the West End. They are long scenes – one is 13 pages – with my screwed-up, long-lost daughter, played by Claire Sweeney. I really need to get a grip on my Corrie lines, but my attention is torn between them and the play script. It’s been eight months since I last performed Rose, a one-woman show about a feisty old lady who goes from a shtetl in Ukraine to owning a hotel in Miami Beach, and this week it opens at the Ambassadors Theatre. I start on page one of the 47-page play, only to get distracted by a new Corrie script. Consequently, from about page 22, I know very little.

I have just come back from spending some days with David Hockney at his house in Normandy. We are making a film about him – the longest film about a single subject I have ever attempted. Like Monet’s, Hockney’s environment is his subject. The great sequence of ‘The Four Seasons’ is from his grounds. He finds all the different blossoms he needs there, and there is a river and a pond. His friend has turned an old barn into a magnificent studio. David is in his mid-eighties but is as sharp as he was the first time I interviewed him for The South Bank Show in 1978.

The wonderful Barbara Kingsolver wrote that hope is something you should not admire from a distance, but rather live inside of, ‘under its roof’. Last week I lived under the roof of hope as the campaigns for the first round of the Turkish presidential elections drew to a close. This is an existential crossroads for Turkey, my motherland. The AKP under Recep Tayyip Erdogan have been in power for two decades. Although they started off on their journey with promises of liberal reforms, a democratic constitution, and plenty of rhetoric about joining the EU, they have become increasingly nationalist, Islamist, patriarchal and authoritarian with each passing year.

What an emotional wringer the royal family has put us through in the past two years, from the sadness of Prince Philip’s death to the joyful Platinum Jubilee, then Queen Elizabeth II’s own extraordinarily moving funeral, and now the coronation of her son. I’ve felt so privileged to have been at Buckingham Palace for the last three events, anchoring Fox News coverage in America. After we came off air on Saturday, I mused with my two US co-presenters about what may be the next major royal occasion: a wedding, a funeral, a silver jubilee (Charles would have to live as long as his grandmother for that to happen)? Or God forbid, will the British monarchy itself be terminally contaminated by the increasingly pungent whiff of republicanism sweeping the Commonwealth?

Once, years ago, making small talk with Elizabeth II, I asked her if it was true that many peers attending her coronation in 1953 had taken sandwiches into Westminster Abbey hidden inside their coronets. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘They were in the abbey for something like six hours, you know. The Archbishop of Canterbury even had a flask of brandy tucked inside his cassock.’ Apparently, His Grace offered Her Majesty a discreet nip, but she declined. When I pressed the Queen for any amusing recollections of the great day, she did recall the moment, after the crowning, when England’s premier baron, William Stourton (22nd Baron Stourton, 26th Baron Segrave and 25th Baron Mowbray), came forward to pay homage.

Browsing my local Oxfam, my eye was drawn to a faded hardcover with the title The Merry Wives of Westminster. As some readers may know, my Twitter handle is @WestminsterWAG, so I bought it for the princely sum of £2.99. It wasn’t until I got home and started reading it that I realised who the author was: Marie Belloc, sister of Hilaire, a successful novelist in her own right. Married to the Times journalist Frederick Lowndes, she died in 1947; this little book was published in 1946. She writes with clarity and confidence on the SW1 of her day, but what’s fascinating are the parallels with modern life: the money worries, the snobberies and snubbings, the late-night working practices of Fleet Street’s finest, the professional rivalries.

You can’t please all of the people any of the time. But a core part of my job is ensuring that I don’t consistently displease a majority of them. Last week a radio show had a phone-in asking listeners to debate whether I’m a racist. I thought about calling in as Margaret from Fareham, to suggest the Home Secretary take courage from another Margaret’s words: ‘I always cheer up immensely if an attack is particularly wounding because I think, well, if they attack one personally, it means they have not a single political argument left.’ The pursuit of truth is a good lodestar for the right policies. If we are to address the injustice of the grooming gangs scandal we must be willing to acknowledge the role that ethnicity played in covering it up.

Years ago, as a penniless young musician, I sometimes played the organ at weddings and learned a bitter lesson: the congregation hadn’t come for the music. I was used to concert audiences who listened attentively and rewarded pleasure received with appreciation given, and it came as a shock to discover that wedding congregations chattered or nipped out for a ciggie during our lovingly rehearsed anthems, failed to join in the hymns and allowed their infants to howl – though once I had become a parent I grew more forgiving of this. Words of appreciation afterwards were rare. Thus I resign myself to expect scant public attention to be paid to the feast of music that will accompany the coronation service on 6 May.

Two attacks in local villages, leaving 17 dead in one and eight in another, says my teacher friend from Kaduna State in Nigeria in one of his latest letters. He writes regularly about the threats that he and his family and students face from Islamist militias. But what stays in my mind, apart from the horror of the details, is his steadfast refusal to demonise his Muslim neighbours and his eagerness to find resources to think (and pray) through what he needs to do and to communicate. He wants to learn what it is that stops cycles of retribution; he wants to break out of the mentality which assumes that what matters is to have enough firepower to intimidate and silence what threatens you.

Last Friday I found myself in the magnificent Carnegie-funded Central Library in George IV Bridge, Edinburgh. I was due to speak at a Scotonomics conference and, after glancing at some of the more challenging questions that had been sent in advance, concluded that an hour or so’s revision was urgently called for on the respective attributes of new monetarism and wellbeing economics. Entering the reading room, I was asked by the kind library staff if I had a reading card. ‘Well, I was a regular user as a student,’ I ventured. ‘When was that? Our records go back a fair way,’ they said helpfully. ‘1973,’ I answered. ‘Please fill in the form.

This has been an agonising time for those of us who love Julian Sands. On 13 January, he went for a one-day hike up Mount Baldy, 50 miles from Los Angeles, and hasn’t been seen since. No one who knows Julian can believe he’s dead. He’s the very epitome of the free-spirited actor. You never know where Julian will be turning up next. As soon as he lands in the UK, he always telephones to tell me about, say, playing a paedophile in the terrifying Czech film The Painted Bird or going to help Mike Figgis on his latest project in Hong Kong. If it’s Terence Davies, he’ll do it. Doesn’t mind the size of the part. That’s who he is. Julian knows a lot about art, wine and mountaineering, but it’s his enthusiasm and generosity which makes him an outstanding reader of poetry.

Washington, DC You can measure the health of the American republic, or at least its governing institutions, on a weekday-morning Acela train from Washington to New York. It’s too expensive to use for pleasure ($337 if you plan late and are unlucky), too time-consuming (almost three hours for the 225-mile trip) to permit idling in the café car. So the train is always full of strivers, working their mobile phones. On Tuesday morning, the phone chitchat was anxious. Even in Washington, where analysts and economists had been working all weekend to contain the collapse of Silicon Valley Bank, the reeling of the financial system when markets opened on Monday caught people by surprise. It shouldn’t have.

I’m in New Zealand, climax to my antipodean speaking tour, where I walked headlong into a raging controversy. Jacinda Ardern’s government implemented a ludicrous policy, spawned by Chris Hipkins’s Ministry of Education before he became prime minister. Science classes are to be taught that Māori ‘Ways of Knowing’ (Mātauranga Māori) have equal standing with ‘western’ science. Not surprisingly, this adolescent virtue-signalling horrified New Zealand’s grown-up scientists and scholars. Seven of them wrote to the Listener magazine. Three who were fellows of the NZ Royal Society were threatened with an inquisitorial investigation. Two of these, including the distinguished medical scientist Garth Cooper, himself of Māori descent, resigned (the third unfortunately died).