Or actually several kind deeds. I got home to my flat last night to find a parcel forwarded to me from The Telegraph office in Victoria. It contained multiple birthday cards sent to me by readers. I’d forgotten that I mentioned the date of my birthday in my column at one point last year but certain Tel readers did not. They noted it down and posted me cards this week. I was so bowled over I welled up. What a kindness.
Today, in another parcel forwarded from the office, a reader called Mr Turner sent me a couple of his own prints. I wrote the other weekend about Meghan and Harry having the run of the Royal Art Collection for their new pad in Windsor, and compared it to my flat where there are fewer Michaelangelos. Mr Turner printed a couple of his works off – a still life and a sketch of Gordon’s Wine Bar – and sent them to me. All in all, I’m feeling stupendously grateful for such generosity and want to marry them all.
Also, on the subject of art, I went to see the photographer Don McCullin’s exhibition at the Tate Britain this week. It’s staggering and on until May. Do go. It’s not an uplifting exhibition but almost every frame will make you gasp. It’s also vast, with so many rooms to get through I almost ran out of time. So allow at least an hour and a half, maybe two. It’s not one you can whip through.
OH and finally HERE is a link to this week’s Spectator podcast, on which I
talk grumble about hen parties.