T.V. CELEBRITY OF THE YEAR
You might possibly have noticed that basically, (ooooh, everyone’s favourite word. Don’t even THINK of giving a radio interview without inserting it at least once per sentence. Also begin each sentence with “So….”. Not “Err…” or “Um…” Times have changed.
So, as I was saying, basically this column is a poor excuse for flogging my book. See below. Please.
Now the book in question first appeared in a rather iffy Italian translation (pace Sperling and Kupfer, but the exact translation of “ midday”, amongst thirty odd other howlers, is actually “mezzogiorno.” Not “mezzanotte,” as your translator suggested, and the Ministers were “signing” important papers in the Ambassador’s private office. Not singing.) The idea of publishing in Italian was an attempt to avoid ruining my husband’s career. He was Italian Ambassador to the Court of St. James at the time, and I was endeavouring to be on my best behaviour. I did, however, obtain permission to publish and promote in Italy.
So this is what happened.
I was standing in the middle of a muddy field just outside Rome with a Beagle straining at the leash in one hand (trying to resettle a passing cat in the upper branches of a nearby tree where she thought it would look more attractive….) and in the other, a very excited horse trying to leap a fence in order to rejoin its pals on the other side where the grass, as is the habit with grass the world over, was greener, when the mobile phone started ringing. Nothing new so far. Jodphur pockets are notoriously small and it all took some time and a fair amount of pretty colourful language before I managed to extricate the phone, by which time Ms Highly Pissed Orff My Time is Precious was chafing at the bit on the other end of the not very clear line.
Would I agree, she asked, to do a T.V.programme where I would show the viewers how to prepare a meal suitable to serve in an Embassy whilst we discussed My Book?
Beagle takes advantage to disappear over the skyline in hot pursuit of an imaginary lizard or wild boar, horse practices standing on various combinations of two legs and Ms Famous Writer (me) explains in no uncertain terms that, given the option, I would much prefer to be shot from outer space, head down, in a follow up attempt to break the sound barrier. Thank you.
Oh, says Ms H.P.O.M.T.I.P., somewhat snootily, then I'll call back tomorrow and we'll discuss it after you have given it some thought.
So the next day I am standing on the outskirts of the 5yr old's athletics class with 5 yr old in question clinging like a limpet to my trouser leg because he is having a bad attack of Mummyitis, except that unfortunately Mummy in question is in Amsterdam for a conference so he's having to make do with the substitute, me, instead, and the phone goes. Would I prefer to spend three minutes just talking about the book on TV, or do the half hour cookery programme as mentioned?
Does this remind you of that bit in Doctor Spock where it explains that you never ask a toddler whether he would like spinach for dinner? What you should ask, as everyone knows, is "would you like spinach or Brussel sprouts for dinner?” “Darling?”
For various reasons, most of which I consider to be blatantly obvious, I did not care to mention that the last time I had achieved anything resembling serious cooking was somewhere around March 3rd 1978, since when I had employed someone else to do it for me. That my well known culinary speciality was burnt everything. That for the past ten years of my diplomatic wanderings, we had employed professional cooks, most of whom were quite rightly reluctant to allow me within sniffing distance of the kitchen. That my idea of haute cuisine these days was a tuna fish sandwich and a banana consumed, mostly, whilst waiting for the traffic lights to change.
I cannot, I said with some conviction, pretend to teach the Italians how to cook Italian food. The most I could offer, I said, is my patriotic version of Coulibiac. Puff pastry, (ready- made), risotto, (Knorr), (left over) cooked salmon, (frozen) shrimps, (M&S ready- made) Hollandaise sauce (imported from London and microwaved to within an inch of its life.......) When you have piled it all into the pastry case and cooked and sliced it, you get layers of red white and green, if it doesn’t collapse on you first. The Italian flag. Eat your heart out, Berlusconi, famous for his Pasta Tricolore and strawberry, vanilla and pistachio ice-cream combinations.
Stupidly I left out the bits in brackets, and I could hear her salivating all down the phone.
The things one lets oneself in for just to flog a book.
Writing a weekly blog, for example.
Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle Survive Diplomacy