He asked us to drop in for tea when we had finished, but to come in by the servants' entrance because he was alone in the house and there was no one to answer the front door (again a characteristic carry-on, suggesting both poverty and solitude but also an unshed grandeur - there appeared to be no question of him answering the door himself).

Somehow we ended up in what was clearly the drawing-room, which seemed empty until our eyes focused enough to see the celebrated gaunt hawk's profile outlined against the long window. Thus discovered - I saw from later encounters this was how he liked to be come upon - he pushed a plate of dry cucumber sandwiches at us and began to talk in a shy undertone.

At first I thought this awkwardness was because he was out of practice in company. His wife, Hester, had long since been turfed out and their only son, George, was away and for the moment estranged, too. But this was Sassoon's normal way of talking (his poetry readings at the height of his fame had often been more or less inaudible), and it was no obstacle to a formidable eloquence when he got going.

[...]

Where Philip does remain memorable is as a figure in the history of taste. Port Lympne, in its dramatic setting overlooking the Channel, can be seen as a landmark in the evolution of the postmodern. Philip originally commissioned Sir Herbert Baker to build an H-shaped house in the Dutch Colonial style. Soon, Elizabethan balustrades were added, later its most memorable feature, a grand triumphal Trojan staircase of Mussolini or Cecil B De Mille proportions, from the top of which you could see France on a clear day. Inside, there was a Moorish courtyard, marble everywhere and extravagant murals by José María Sert, "the Tiepolo of the Ritz".

Philip was fully aware of the high camp nature of the whole enterprise and said of one particularly ghastly bathroom panelled in brown and black zigzags of marble, "It takes you by the throat and shakes you." He delighted in monstrous armies of blue delphiniums, and sickening swirls of herbaceous borders. He was delighted, too, when he heard a guide telling a party of visitors, "It's all in the old-world style but every bit of it sham."

die grausamkeitserwägungen in der sitzungspause. mal sehen, was geht. den drangsalierungspegel mal höher justieren. und eine neue reiz-reaktions-kette etablieren: wenn du einen politiker siehst, der kein jackett und keine krawatte trägt, geh in deckung.

titel für einen roman: "die überflüssigen". es wären viele flüssigkeiten drin, körper- und alkoholische und ein beiläufiges scheissarrogantes fluidum. mal sehn.

titel für ein weblog: "bikini klub". mit k. und ohne eine einzige spur, die den namen entschlüsselbar machte.

heute seit langem wieder bei zweitausendeins gewesen, um endlich in plüschgewittern zu kaufen. sofort abgestoßen gewesen von dieser mängelexemplar-geschäftsidee. in der rezession ist es immens wichtig, dass man von ramschläden nicht daran erinnert wird, dass es ramschläden sind.

ich: was machen wir eigentlich, wenn die flasche leer ist? sie: gibt es keinen interschnaps?

das wahrste inbild der vergangenen woche: ein mazda miata, darin eine sehr dicke frau und ein kleines mädchen im kindersitz

das berlin-florian illies-frank schirrmacher-problem lässt sich ganz leicht auch in einem satz ausdrücken: in berlin wird keiner es je schaffen, so zu gehen, wie man in paris geht.

contemporary couple. das "zehnjährige fickjubiläum", wie sie es nennt, glatt vergessen.

die weiße lackledertasche bei zara. weißes patent leather sowieso das neue heiße ding. irgendwie so eine mischung aus krankenschwestertum und schlampentum.

der italian job mit michael caine war deutlich besser als der italian job mit herrn wahlberg.