Prince Harry declared: "We need to grow the national resilience here in the UK." He's not wrong. We are all resilience fans. We loathe snowflakes and value backbone, moral fibre, putting our best feet forward and not falling apart when things – as they inevitably will – go awry. For an example of grade A resilience in the relentless glare of the public gaze, Harry needed to look no further than his own nephew George.
Prince George's Composure at Wimbledon
While the broiling Wimbledon crowd stewed, steamed, glowed, perspired and fanned itself, Prince George managed to look cool, calm and collected formally attired in a jacket and tie. Most 12-year-olds, not of the blood royal, would have fidgeted, squirmed, badgered their parents for an emergency Cornetto and begged to take off their jackets, stuff their ties in their pockets and roll up their shirtsleeves. George is made of sterner stuff. How do the royals instil self-discipline, control and impeccable manners in their children? Harry must surely know the secret. Isn't it high time they shared it with us?
Remembering Ann Widdecombe
Politicians and pundits alike trotted out the phrase: "Our thoughts are with Ann Widdecombe's family." Of course, I send her nearest and dearest my deepest condolences, but my thoughts are firmly with Ann herself. I interviewed Ann dozens of times. She was brusque, brisk and acerbic, often giving the shortest of shrifts. She was also exceptionally quick-witted, crafting elegantly pithy responses and – behind the scenes – kind and considerate. Although she was indeed diminutive, a trifle frail and 78 years old, Ann was as astute and hard-hitting as ever. I keep wondering if she knew her tragic fate? Was she terrified? Did she try to use her considerable powers of persuasion to distract her attacker? I pray she was absorbed in cooking, eating or reading and had no idea what was about to befall her. I hope the God she worshipped with heart, mind and being protected her from fear, shock and pain. It may be a cliché but in Ann's case it is true – we will never see her like again.
Nostalgia and the End of Postcards
I'm dead keen on a good old wallow in nostalgia. Now I'm an antique, I can even manage to muster misty-eyed reverie about stuff that might have occurred in days of yore but not to me. Strike up a couple of chords of Dvorak's New World Symphony and I tear up instantly, though I never lived in a cobbled Northern street or had my Hovis delivered by a flat-capped boy on a two-wheeler. Say the words "Raleigh chopper", "scrumping apples", "Stars on Sunday" or "Viennetta" and I come over all unnecessary. When you are vintage yourself, it's easy to believe everything was better, including the awful bits. I have no problem putting a jolly top-spin on the power cuts of 1974 – zero homework, couldn't do it coz couldn't see it plus "one-pot" sausage and beans whipped up by mum by candlelight on a Calor Gas ring; the long hot summer of '76 – fizzing hormones, bed-time abandoned and a government edict to share a bath with a stranger; and life before daytime TV – we read till our eyes bled and watched the girl, clown, blackboard test card till Play School started. Memory plays tricks. Unappetising 70s fodder – frozen "potato waffles" anyone? – is somehow re-branded "Scrumptious!" Packing boxes of brushed nylon pyjamas in my dad's warehouse, unpaid, "for the family war effort" has evolved in the re-telling into "learning grass-roots commerce at the knee of a captain of industry". It's what oldies do. We can't help it. We extoll the virtues of Woolworth's pick'n'mix, verruca socks and avocado bathroom suites. We must, however, draw the line somewhere – and here is mine. I cannot bewail the imminent demise of the postcard. Research shows half the population has never sent one and I couldn't care less. The nasty things loomed over our holidays, messing with our peace of mind. We were commanded to fill at least half a dozen with compelling content, inscribe our observations in our "best writing" and inflict a brace on family and friends. The chief drawback, as inspiration dried up after "The weather is hot", was knowing your grandma would be as underwhelmed reading it as you were writing it. Postcards enabled adults to boast while pretending to miss relatives they'd paid a fortune to escape. Innocent children were caught in the crossfire. English Heritage is trying to stave off extinction with specially commissioned cards. They needn't bother. Some things come to a natural end and not a moment too soon.
New Show and Ruthie Henshall's Memoir
Feltz Towers is awash with builders – 15 at the last count. The last Channel 5 Vanessa show is on Friday and construction of a spanking studio where my reception/dining room used to be is manically underway. My new show 'At Home with Vanessa' will be on YouTube and filming begins on August 11. I'm told terrestrial telly has had its day and Gen Z fills its boots consuming TV in digestible chunks whenever it fancies. My team and I are going for an adult Big Breakfast vibe. Let's just say my bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and mezzanine will feature along with the crew and the herbaceous border. I hope traditional viewers will twiddle the knobs and come and check out the fun and frolics. As my chum Ruth Langsford said: "Vanessa, you don't let the grass grow." Which reminds me, I'd better get mowing. When is a kiss and tell not a kiss and tell? When it is written by musical theatre star Ruthie Henshall. Yes, she gives chapter and verse on her rollicking sex life with Prince Edward with whom she enjoyed a spirited loving on-off relationship from 1988-1993 but she does it with such warmth and wit that even Edward's wife Sophie couldn't possibly take offence. In fact, Ruthie performs the hitherto impossible feat of making staid, stolid Edward seem like a super-stud with a nice line in vulnerability and kindness. She says the two are still occasionally in touch and she kept him in the loop about her memoir 'The Showgirl and the Prince'. Ruthie lunched with the Queen, gossiped with Diana, was warned to get out while she could by Fergie and told Edward she was attending parties knickerless for extra frisson. She'd drink-dial the Palace switchboard, show up in leg warmers and ra ra skirts and stay true to herself while fantasising about living happily ever after with Edward at Frogmore Cottage. She was a game girl and she's a thoroughly decent woman. Edward is the only one of the Queen's children not to be divorced and Sophie has done us all proud, but I can't be the only one thinking Ruthie would have been an honest, grounded, flawed, funny, talented, relatable and riveting addition to the House of Windsor.
Remembering Dermot Murnaghan
Rest in peace delightful Dermot Murnaghan. Like everyone else, I knew and loved Dermot as a polished and professional journalist, but, unlike everyone else, we were both invited to celebrate the launch of South African magnate Sol Kerzner's Atlantis Hotel on the Palm in Dubai in 2008. To give you a flavour, the guest list included Michael Jordan, Keith Richards, Lily Allen, Rhys Ifans, the Olsen twins, Sarah Ferguson, then Duchess of York and Kylie Minogue (who also performed at the party). You get the picture. I couldn't work out how or why I'd made the cut. Dermot, who made a beeline for me, felt the same. "I cannot believe I'm here," he said modestly. "I just can't get my head around it. Do you think there's been some mistake?" There was no mistake. Dermot was a self-deprecating but dazzling asset to the occasion. Spending time with him was my favourite part of the entire glittering extravaganza. He wore his fame, knowledge and good looks lightly. He will be sorely missed.
