As a young American infantry officer in London awaiting his D-Day orders, Gardner Botsford met ‘an English couple – a civilian accountant, middle-aged and very pleasant, and his middle-aged very pleasant wife – who invited [him] to drop in at their flat in Chelsea that evening after dinner.’ To Botsford’s surprise, the ‘little party’ featured not well-cooked rationed food, but a striking woman. She wore nothing but tiger-skin patches on her stomach and back. And she was striking the many guests with a six-foot leather whip:
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'The authors do not shrink from spelling out the scale of the killings when the Rhodesians made long-distance raids on guerrilla camps in Mozambique and Zambia.'
Xan Smiley on how Rhodesia became Zimbabwe.
'Thirkell was a product of her time and her class. For her there are no sacred cows, barring those that win ribbons at the Barchester Agricultural.'
The novelist Angela Thirkell is due a revival, says Patricia T O'Conner (£).