![]() ![]() There are other examples of such petty nicotine power play in Craig Brown’s roistering quasi-biography of the chain-smoking princess. Then she contentedly lit her own cigarette. Sean Connery had given it to her, she told him. “Isn’t this fun?” she remarked, showing him a gold item with “007” engraved on it. She took another cigarette from her bag, swiftly followed by her own lighter. A while later, he found himself sitting on a sofa with the princess. Obligingly, he turned to a passing guest, borrowed a lighter and indulged her fastidiousness. But she stopped him: no, she said, she couldn’t abide book matches. ![]() He dug out some matches and prepared to fire up the princess. She was, however, famously royal, so when she reached into her bag, extracted a cigarette and pointed it towards Strand, he knew his (republican) duty. The princess was not tall – indeed, she was christened “the Royal Dwarf” in 1951 – was sharp of speech and not jam-packed with noblesse oblige. Strand was extremely tall, very deliberate of speech and gait, well mannered and craggily handsome – the overall effect was of Clint Eastwood’s bookish, better-looking older brother. This happened at a New York cocktail party, and must have been an incongruous encounter. T he only friend I have had who met Princess Margaret was the US poet Mark Strand. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |