Elisa Segrave

Peregrine Worsthorne died peacefully at home on 4 October 2020. Two weeks earlier I had visited him with my son Nicholas, at his home in Buckinghamshire where he lived with wife Lucinda Lambton and devoted young Croatian carer Luca. It was a beautiful day and we arrived for lunch after a long drive. Perry was brought into the garden, with its animal topiary, and we sat with him in the sun. By the French windows, Lucy picked orange baby tomatoes. My son then fed them, one by one, to Perry, who opened his mouth like a baby bird while Lucy brought out lemonade. Perry seemed pleased to see us. I first met him in the 1990s. I had recently divorced and Perry had just met Lucy, at a party of Cynthia Kee’s. The two then made a couple of attempts to matchmake me with Peter Vansittart.

National Autism Month in April coincided with our strictest phase of lockdown. My son, 36, who has Asperger’s, has consequently been unable to stick to all his routines — one being the Sunday car boot sale on Brighton Racecourse — and I was worried about how he’d cope. He suggested we watch classic EastEnders together from our separate homes and text each other about the personalities and plot. It worked. The episodes from the early 1990s are fast-moving and the characters very real. One scriptwriter then, Susan Boyd, born in Glasgow, hung out with the Jamaican community in Ladbroke Grove in the 1970s. She died at only 55. I looked up her obituary. ‘The woman comes across as unassuming and unmaterialistic and also very talented. Son.

My beloved grandmother died at 90, and my mother at 89, after having Alzheimer’s for 11 years. So I am not rattled by the old; I find their memory lapses challenging rather than frightening. (If I were the full-time carer of an elderly husband, it might be another matter. One woman described it as being strangled slowly by a python.) I recently visited 96-year-old Sir Peregrine Worsthorne, former columnist, journalist and editor of the Sunday Telegraph, at his house in Bucks. In May, his wife (writer Lucinda Lambton) and a kind Croatian carer were present. This time, the two of us were alone for three hours. Perhaps this made it easier for Perry, and me, to focus. I brought up key figures from his past.

As I get older I find the idea of wanting to be in a couple more and more bizarre. I’m not talking about sex — which anyway often becomes less frequent after years of familiarity — or marrying for financial security. No, I’m puzzled about people’s obsession with getting a permanent companion. There are all sorts of websites and advice columns purported to help us reach this goal. I used to receive ‘taster’ emails from Rori Raye, a bubbly American lady with blonde curls, author of How to Have the Relationship You Want. She offered to show us, for a fee, how to be the woman men always fell for. Our ultimate aim should be to ‘get the ring on the finger’ — basically, to entrap the elusive male.

I have always found the parable of the Prodigal Son sickeningly unfair, and I felt this again while driving a close relative down a motorway in a frightful gale at night to a residential rehab. -That morning I’d had an emergency consultation in London on behalf of the said relative, with the head of the rehab place, who I’ll call Dr X. Throughout, I’d had the uneasy feeling that Dr X was subtly trying to make me feel at fault for not being sympathetic enough to my relative’s situation. Actually, I have suffered for years from his wild and selfish behaviour while on cocaine and alcohol, and have often tried to help him. Dr X is an expert on addiction, and a self-confessed addict (though not to drugs or drink).

I had an all-day ticket for the Lewes Speakers Festival at the All Saints Centre on Saturday. I was keen to hear the writer Damien Lewis on the wartime Special Interrogation Group who’d disguised themselves as German soldiers and stormed Tobruk, Andrew Monaghan on his book Power in Modern Russia, and Theodore Dalrymple, ex-Spectator columnist and a former prison psychiatrist. The last speaker, scheduled for 6.45 p.m., was to be Katie Hopkins. I was curious: is she autistic, does she have a narcissistic personality disorder, or is she just a horrible person and a show-off? I had hardly read her stuff, but after the food writer Jack Monroe won a libel case against her in March 2017 (Hopkins thought Monroe had desecrated a war memorial), my daughter showed me an interview.

Lothario, Don Juan, philanderer, ‘naughty’, ‘plays away’ — all terms for men who have an overwhelming drive to seduce scores of women, take no responsibility, and often get away with it. In the recent allegations about Harvey Weinstein’s predatory sexual attacks on more than 30 females, mainly actresses, whose careers seem to have depended on them being compliant, most of his victims now complain too of his physical unattractiveness. One, the Italian actor and director Asia Argento, who went on to have ‘consensual sex’ with Weinstein on and off for five years, says she was ‘a fool’. Those who have come forward with their stories and condemned Weinstein, often several years later, are being heaped with praise for their courage.

I am a compulsive diarist and have been since I was 16. My daughter fantasises that even as a mad old lady in the attic I will still be tapping out my diary. I have to do it. If I don’t, I feel almost ill, as if I am only half living. Do I want my diaries published? Yes, I do, though I did not write them for that purpose. I am 66 and, due to the sheer number of words, they would fill 20 volumes. I feel that if they are not read, my life as a writer will have been wasted. The diarists with whom I most empathise were also compulsive, though I admire those who deliberately chronicle an important period of history.