More from life

Five years ago I joined forces with some local worthies to object to the opening of a strip joint on Acton High Street. We weren’t successful, but the owner of the club decided to invite us all to the opening night. He claimed we’d got the wrong end of the stick. It wasn’t a sleazy lap-dancing club — oh no — but a ‘burlesque’ club. What this meant in practice is that the dancers had glued feathers to their micro bikinis. Apart from that it was business as usual. The upshot was that I spent a couple of hours standing in the middle of a strip club trying to make small talk with about 20 middle-aged ladies, most of them Lib Dem activists, as a succession of topless women gyrated on stage.

When I was a child, growing up in Hertfordshire just after the second world war, my parents employed a cook called Mrs Sharp, who was a very kind and good woman. But she was also extremely fat and had an enormous protruding stomach that impeded her access to the kitchen stove. Lying around in the house at the time was a 78rpm record of a new popular song from the United States called the ‘Too Fat Polka’, of which the recurrent chorus was ‘I don’t want her, you can have her, she’s too fat for me’. The song, recorded by the then famous but now generally forgotten American broadcaster and entertainer Arthur Godfrey, was a big hit in 1947 when people may have been more amused than offended by gentle mockery of the obese.

By the time you read this I’ll be 50. A couple of years ago, when President Obama passed this milestone, I wrote a piece for the Telegraph about how much I was dreading it. But now it’s finally happening, I can’t think what all the fuss was about. Turns out it’s a bit like being mugged: more terrifying in the imagination than reality. It’s possible that I’m in denial. According to a study carried out by Warwick University and Dartmouth College, involving more than two million people, turning 50 is a low point. ‘One in five women and one in six men in this country suffer from depression at this time,’ says Dr Andrew McCulloch, the ex-chief executive of the Mental Health Foundation.

The Italians are often thought of as being unpatriotic, and one can see why. They relentlessly denigrate their national institutions, abuse their politicians, and compare their democratic arrangements most unfavourably with those of the ‘more mature’ north European countries. You might conclude, therefore, that most Italians ‘hate’ Italy. But, of course, you would be wrong, just as the Daily Mail was wrong when it decided on the basis of Ralph Miliband’s political opinions that he ‘hated Britain’.

There is at last good news to report on the poultry front. In the past, when I have mentioned my chickens or my ducks, it has usually been after some grisly tragedy — a duck decapitated by a terrier, another disembowelled by a fox. I can no longer remember how many chickens I have lost to foxes, which usually leave only piles of feathers as evidence of their visits (though I once saw a fox brazenly killing a chicken in broad daylight just outside my front door). But since I am determined never to yield to terrorism, I always head off to the poultry centre in Towcester to replace whatever bird has been killed with one looking as much like it as possible. I thus keep my poultry numbers roughly stable at around eight ducks and eight chickens at any one time.

My brother John’s great book sale, about which I wrote on this page a couple of weeks ago, finally took place at Stoke Park last weekend, and it went far better than I had anticipated. Admittedly, I had expected little. For a while I had even feared catastrophe. John, who is 86 and in poor health, seemed to think that he alone could sort out and price some 6,000 books in three weeks, even though he liked to stop and read them as he went along. But he has always had an enviable gift for arousing in others an urge to take care of him; so many helpers duly appeared, unprompted, to offer their services for free.

My village, Stoke Bruerne in south Northamptonshire, is just getting back to normal after a great influx of visitors for its annual weekend festival called ‘Village at War’. Stoke Bruerne is a small place that sits astride the Grand Union Canal about halfway along its route from London to Birmingham. Its fame, such as it is, rests on its seven locks and the fact that it houses a Canal Museum; and the ‘Village at War’ event was started six years ago by the Friends of the Canal Museum to raise money for that excellent institution. I don’t yet know how well it has done this year, but last year it was attended by more than 12,000 people and raised £20,000.

It is exactly 40 years since my elder brother John gave up a successful career as a publisher to set up in business on his own as an antiquarian bookseller. He lived at the time in a fine 18th-century house on Kew Green next to the botanical gardens, and perhaps for no reason other than its location he decided to specialise in botanical books. The business, conducted from his home, went quite well; but various events led him in due course to move to New York, where Kew Books, as the business was and still is called, established itself grandly in Madison Avenue on the Upper East Side. This proved less successful. The overheads were enormous and the competition formidable, so John moved to Puerto Rico where Kew Books was re-established in the capital, San Juan.