Got to be said. Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, still turns a nifty ankle and she won by a mile stealing the show at a Christmas wedding.
Taking up the rear, as the family arrived for he occasion in Hants, the boot-faced Prince Andrew. The moneybags, airmiles Andrew.
What is his purpose in life, short of mingling with sheiks and assorted potentates. Nobody knows. Nobody cares.
Alas, daughters Beatrice and Eugenie appear to have inherited Mister Happy mode. Spoiled brats? You never heard me say so.
Hard to swallow
Ever modest Michael Winner has penned his last restaurants review column for a Sunday national paper and a reader has written to him: “Your final review brought a lump to my throat.”
The surgeons are still operating.
Afterwords . .
. . . Boyle girning: “Some people mustn’t forget that I’m a human being with real feelings.” Not me, Susan, 51 and a big girl now. Not me from the moment we first met at Cardinal Keith O’Brien’s New Year party I’ve known you’re for real, with real feelings.