Gynaecologists seldom appear on my radar. As a breed, splendid chaps. But I’ve never had the need for them. Better play safe, though. You never know when you’ll need one.
We were round a Sunday lunch table in the rarefied atmosphere of Blacket Place. Hosts Alastair and Alison Mowat and Dr Alan Brown and wife Elizabeth are near neighbours.
“When people ask me what I do I tell them I’m a retired gynaecologist but I still do bits and pieces. I met Prince Philip once and found him ‘very interested’,” said Alan, who added: “I’ve got an expensive house and an expensive wife and she sends me out to work.”
I’m not a doctor. I mean I’ve had no formal training but I felt obliged to reassure the congenial Alan, 73, if ever he needed a hand not to hesitate to call me.
Something to ponder while we await Oscar Pistorius’ fate. And June, when the verdict is due, does seem a helluva long way off.
Would Douglas Bader with his false legs have competed in the Olympics? Yes. You bet.
And, by heavens, he’d have won gold for Britain. Made of the right stuff, we Union Jackers like to think. What rattling good yarns Bader would have made, publishers will concur in what’s left of the books trade.
In the latest on the Royals (see your bookie for irresistible odds) prince of the chancers Airmiles Andrew is fifth in line for the throne. After him, Beatrice. God help us all.