Long mislaid in my chaotic west-London house – which exists, as we will see, in a microclimate of its own – is a gift from the late Michael Winner.
He and I were enemies for years, and then friends. It was once a fact of journalistic life that persistent feuding with the highly sensitive would end either in the High Court or at lunch. In our case, after many flirtations with the former, we settled on lunch.
We hit it off, as portly, irascible
