IN APRIL her Putney home was gutted by fire and her furniture and possessions burned. In June she was burgled and her jewellery stolen. Then her best friend died. In July she was car-jacked and her £5,000 watch robbed; 24 hours later, she bumped into the gang who stole it. Former Page Three model Jilly Johnson, who has spoken before only about her watch theft, admits reluctantly that she’s had a run of bad luck.

We meet in The Harbour Club, tennis haunt for Princess Diana. As we walk past the bar, six pairs of male eyes, too young to remember Jilly topless in The Sun in the Seventies, follow this bronzed 40-year-old in a slashed white tunic dress with flowing blonde hair.

Jilly has brassy good looks, a big beak, an Australian twang (she lived there until she was 12) and that immediate antipodean friendliness. ‘I’m Australian in the way I’m not overly fond of wearing clothes,’ says Jilly, laughing generously. She loves to laugh at herself.

On 6 April she drove home at 5pm and was shocked to see her three-bedroom semi on fire. ‘Clouds of smoke were pouring out of the windows. I raced in,’ she says. ‘The hall was fine, I could get in, but upstairs was totally in flames.’

There had been an electrical fault and the fire had engulfed everything. ‘Anything that wasn’t destroyed was smoke damaged. I didn’t have any clothes left at all. The fire traumatised me,’ she says, with characteristic strong eye contact. She’s too upset to estimate the damage. She was renting while house hunting and wasn’t insured. She moved out and has stayed with friends since. Then her hosts were burgled. ‘All my earrings were stolen.’ Again, Jilly was uninsured. Next her closest friend died. ‘I really can’t talk about that. It wouldn’t be right.’ Then 18 days ago, a mugger yanked her by the hair and wrenched off her watch while she was stuck in a Bayswater traffic jam.

Astonishingly, Jilly was in a taxi a day later and spotted her assailant in the street. ‘I thought I was being paranoid. I’d been looking at every man I saw,’ she says. ‘I thought, ‘This is too much of a coincidence.’ Then I realised he was with the gang he’d been with when he attacked me. I got the taxi to follow them and called the detective.’

THE youths were already known to the police and a man has now been charged with stealing Jilly’s watch.

‘I’m not the sort who has the vapours and gets hysterics. I’m not a wimp. But I’ve felt very nervous since that someone will break into the flat to shut me up. Yesterday a man stepped off the kerb to walk past and I leapt from my car seat.’ Her arms are still bruised and today she carries a watch attached to her wicker basket.

Jilly, the daughter of a shop fitter, became a household name when she was just 16. ‘I’d been a simple provincial girl at a comprehensive in Surrey where I was an academic desert. Suddenly I was thrust into this wild life of private jet and yacht travel, sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. I found it scary. I felt out of control.’ She remains endearingly insecure about her looks. ‘I don’t believe I’m attractive.’

Aged 19, she married property developer Brian Johnson. ‘I was searching for security.’ They divorced three years later. ‘I was far too young and we just grew apart.’ She dabbled with drugs but is wary of saying so lest she be stitched up with screaming headlines. ‘I tried pot and the odd line of coke. But I never became really involved. I always had my daughter, Lucy (now 18), to look after.’ She was also linked with zillions of famous men. Was she really that raunchy? She giggles. ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ Jilly was rumoured to have had affairs with Ryan O’Neal and Rod Stewart. ‘Ryan targeted me and was pretty difficult to dissuade. He chased me round and round a hotel room. It was so funny, I wish there’d been a camera. Finally I managed to get him to leave.’ And Rod? ‘Doesn’t every blonde with long legs get associated with Rod? I had two dates with him. He’s not my cup of tea. He’s an acquired taste,’ she says, going cross-eyed. More recently she stepped out with Eric Clapton, while he was still married to Patti Boyd. ‘Eric’s a very dear friend, I love him. But I didn’t meet him until after Patti and I never slept with him.’

But Jilly did go out with Chris Carajohn, a crook jailed in 1987 for financing his smart lifestyle with clients’ investments. ‘People told me he was dangerous which was like a red rag to a bull. I’m a desperately lousy judge of character when it comes to men.’

Much of Jilly’s love life is tabloid fabrication and the lesbianism, threesomes and gay sado-masochism in her novel Double Exposure are fictional. ‘My daughter read it and said, ‘Mummy, you’re incorrigible. Where do you get all this stuff from?” Her personal life has been ‘tempestuous’. But she’s been without a partner for a year. ‘I feel so much stronger. I’ve grown up. I don’t need a man right now.’

These days she’s ‘under house arrest’, writing her second novel. ‘All about … er, I don’t want to talk about it. I might change my mind again.’ She’s left behind modelling, pelvic-thrust dancing, singing hits, staying on a sealed floor at the Tokyo Hilton, and crumpet acting in which she was cast always with a Swedish accent and stilettos. She’s keen to reinvent herself. She doesn’t want to talk about her breasts. ‘The plastic surgery I had was a pointless superficial thing to have done. I just want to have more depth now. These questions make me seem so bimboid.’

She doesn’t regret her past. ‘Going topless is just a laugh. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’ But she can’t fathom heavy questions about self-respect or female exploitation.

DID she really never worry at the idea of men ogling and arousing themselves over photographs of her? ‘I can’t believe men … Maybe I’m just being naive – I mean does that kind of thing turn men into rapists? I think it’s just a bit of tittivation (sic) and a British constitution (sic).’ In her nervous agitation, she produces perfect malapropisms.

LAST week I had to have emergency treatment for chronic back sprain. After two days of intensive therapy I managed the five-minute walk to my car in a record 20 minutes, desperate to be driven to my physio. Sadly the car was gone.

It had been left in a Kensington and Chelsea residents’ parking bay, sporting its £70 residents’ permit, parked directly underneath a sign which said parking would be restricted three days hence. Fearing the worst, I called the car pound. My vehicle had indeed been towed away and the council intended to charge me £135 for its day’s bed and board.

I rang Kensington town hall, requesting that my car, which had been legally parked and illegally towed, be returned. It wasn’t my fault that they couldn’t read the date on their own prohibition sign. And I needed the car because of my bad back.

I was put through to Miss Williams. Miss Williams couldn’t authorise the car’s return and transferred me to Miss Shew. Miss Shew suggested Mr Wilson. Mr Wilson wasn’t there. The mayor’s secretary suggested Mr Davis. Miss Birch said better speak to Mr Yates. Mr Yates was in a meeting.

Eventually Mr Yates, Parking Enforcement Manager, rang and said there had been a sign farther up the road from my car indicating that parking was restricted the day my car was left. There was no way he would authorise its return. Mr Yates disagreed that two contradictory signs in one bay were an indication of council incompetence.

Graciously he conceded that if I paid the £105 removal fee plus the £30 ticket, I could collect my vehicle and fill in a formal representations form to request the council to refund my money. I was as incensed as when the council sent a note offering parking spaces under the town hall for residents who were going on holiday and didn’t want their cars towed away – for £35 a week.

DESMOND GUINNESS – scion of the brewery clan, friend of Mick Jagger and Paul Getty, author of Dublin, A Grand Tour and founder of the Irish Georgian Society – really wanted a Palladian house with rococo plasterwork in England. He scoured the countryside, was gazumped on a haunted house which is now the home of Prince Michael of Kent, and ended up with Leixlip, one of the first castles built by the Normans in Ireland.

In 1958, Desmond and his first wife, the late Princess Marie-Gabrielle of Urach-Wurtemberg, moved into Leixlip with 540 books, a mattress and a gun. The couple were known as part of the jeunesse dore. ‘Absolute rubbish,’ says Desmond, a gentle charmer in a Fair Isle waistcoat, who has the bluest blue eyes, wispy white hair and a seductive voice. ‘We were interested in architecture, engravers and silversmiths.’ But he loves beautiful women, doesn’t he? ‘Mmm, I certainly do.’ (Reflective pause.) ‘Well, that’s a conversation stopper.’

The castle had mod cons like windows with stone mullions (added in the 17th century) and 19th century battlements. When the couple moved in, it had baths, but they were in the fields being used as water troughs, and wiring so unsafe the electricity board refused to reconnect the power. But the interior had been elegantly remodelled in Georgian times.

They set about decorating it and buying at country sales. Desmond bid 10 shillings for an unremarkable kitchen table in one crowded auction. ‘It turned out to be the most amazing carved Irish mahogany with a black marble top and has since appeared in several publications.’

Desmond now lives in Leixlip with Penny, his wife of 10 years and a former lover of Lucian Freud; Eileen, his cook of 31 years, who is ever ready for impromptu dinners for 40; and the ghost of a multi-headed hound whose heads appear at the windows. ‘I’ve often undone the shutters thinking I’m going to meet him. I will one day, I’m sure.’ Desmond’s son Patrick and daughter Marina, who has three children by different fathers, live nearby. The day of our interview the castle has been taken over by Michael York, Jacqueline Bisset, Edward Fox and a film crew working on September. ‘The house is pretending to be a dour Scottish castle.’ Workers are busy repainting the ‘set’. And a coach of Americans are coming for a slide show on Irish architecture. ‘They wanted to know what to wear … can you imagine?’

We’re talking in Desmond’s favourite room, the sitting room, in the castellated 14th century tower with its 4ft-thick walls. There are invitations from the Ambassador of Italy and Marianne Faithfull and samples of Pierre Frey material scattered on the table.

It’s the only room light enough to read in without electric lights and the wooden stove burns in here all winter. Like all castles it’s draughty. One guest who called for more blankets in the night was given a pile that included a flag. He woke up frozen, draped in the flag, and thought he’d died. The radiators in this room are hidden in whiskey barrels. Charmingly tatty and unmatching curtains at the windows do their best to keep out the cold.

Desmond affects, amusingly, not to know how many rooms there are. ‘I’m not really sure. But there are 11 bathrooms,’ he says. The hall, paved with terracotta tiles and white flagstones, is being painted yellow by the film people. The dining room is navy with a jolly chinoiserie tapestry and jasmine growing up the 1765 Gothic revival windows. ‘We used to light the candles in here and Marianne Faithfull, a great, great friend who lives next door (five miles away), used to sing in front of the fireplace. She was such a dazzling beauty. You couldn’t possibly resist her.’

The library has an 18th century gilded plaster frieze and French engravings pasted on the walls. Nearby is the drawing room with its Irish mahogany table carved with shells, Savonnerie carpet and Newbridge dolls’ house. William Acton’s drawings of the Mitford sisters adorn the walls. But today it’s full of packing cases and film people.

Upstairs is the chapel. ‘We’ve never prayed in it. It’s never been anything but a passageway for us.’ It has a little pony cart in it in which Marina used to drive as a child. ‘One day I went to an antiques shop and saw it. I thought it looked familiar. It used to live in the stables and had been stolen.’

Under the window in the room known as King John’s bedroom, there’s a copper Victorian bath tub in which Mick Jagger photographed Jerry Hall. The pictures were stolen and later appeared in a British newspaper. ‘My idea,’ says Desmond, ‘had been to hide the tub in the armoire, so people could take a bath in the cupboard.’ The room has a four-poster state bed from Stowe and white lines chalked on the floor from when it was used as a squash court. The Guinnesses’ bedroom is cosy, with a portrait of his mother. ‘By John.’ (Augustus, that is.) His mother is, of course, Diana Mitford who was once married to Sir Oswald Mosley. Beyond this, there’s yet another guest bedroom, hidden away, with French scenic wallpaper of 1822 with views of Italy. ‘They used to sell this wallpaper by saying, ‘Teach your children geography without leaving the home.” There appears to be a different book by a Mitford or Guinness by every bed.

It is at Leixlip that they have an annual Georgian cricket match. And where, as a girl, when Marina wanted to join a travelling circus, Desmond invited a circus to pitch its tents on his land. Whereupon a dromedary embarked on an intimate relationship with their cow.

THE opera singer Fiona O’Neill was eight weeks pregnant when she was driving on the M1 at 70 miles an hour and was hit by a Portuguese lorry. She was lifted into the air in her car, which then spun around before hurtling across the motorway, hitting a concrete block and landing 200 yards up an embankment.

This happened on 5 May when Fiona – who has sung at private parties for John Major and the Prince of Wales and became a household name when she stripped naked for the television film of the musical Vampyr – was on her way to perform as Madame Butterfly.

The lorry driver, in a left-hand drive, had moved lane without seeing her. ‘It was horrendous,’ recalls Fiona. ‘I remember being hit then flying like an aeroplane up an embankment, spinning and floating for what seemed like hours … I kept thinking, ‘You must keep calm because of the baby and how are they going to find someone to sing tonight?”

When Fiona landed, she noted a police car driving past in the other direction. ‘I was told later that I was so far off the M1 that the police thought I was working for the council.’ The bottom of her Vauxhall Cavalier had been ripped off.

The ambulance arrived rapidly, after she’d started having a severe asthma attack. ‘The ambulance man was trying to put an oxygen mask on me while a policeman was trying to breath-test me. The ambulance man told him, ‘You must be joking.” She was taken to Northampton General Hospital where she received treatment for a broken rib, whiplash and terrible shock. Astonishingly, she didn’t lose her baby. (Though even today she suffers migraines, sleeps too much and shakes when driving.) The next night, she performed. ‘I don’t know how I did it. My husband drove me there and I just did it. I knew I had to get going again.’ A week later, she received a bill for £20.65 for the ambulance journey – ‘I never knew you had to pay for emergency services’ – and £123.38 from the company that towed away her car.

Fiona, 35, speaks tremulously with a slight northern accent, has big green eyes, cascading hair and wears a Monsoon shirt and jodhpurs. She has sung with the English National Opera, Scottish Opera, d’Oyle Carte, been an operagram and done promotion work. ‘The whole of Opera North came through Heathrow’s Terminal Two when I was there in a maid’s uniform saying, ‘If you buy two items of duty free …” Last summer she sang at a private party in Hampshire for Prince Charles, when she was suffering from bronchial asthma. Afterwards she met the prince. ‘Oh, you were the one who sang those very high notes,’ he remarked.

FIONA hit the headlines first in 1992 when she starred in Vampyr and took her clothes off with tenor Philip Salmon for a duet in a pool. (‘A trill a minute. Watch her warble. Madame Gutterfly,’ said the tabloids.) She felt uncomfortable about the nude scenes. ‘The only way I managed was by pretending my head was the only bit that belonged to me. You just don’t look down. There are always bits of you you don’t want to see, like your thighs.’ It was particularly difficult for her because she’s an ex-convent schoolgirl, imbued with inhibitions. ‘Their idea of sex education was to say, ‘Don’t bath when you have a period,’ and, ‘You must never look at yourself in the mirror.” She is very unpromiscuous, a loner, and didn’t lose her virginity until she was 23. ‘Maybe I’m frightened of relationships. But I think I’m a closet romantic, into soppy novels and stuff.’ Before transmission, she became excruciatingly embarrassed. ‘Suddenly you realise your neighbours and the man in the pub are going to see you with no clothes on.’ She watched herself. ‘A bit like going to your own first night.’ Afterwards, she received only a few lewd comments and her mother rang. ‘She said, ‘I told you, you’ve not been eating enough.” Fiona married this year, on 29 April, a year after first setting eyes on her husband, set designer Roger Kiff. ‘I met Roger on a train, the 6.19 from London Bridge to New Cross Gate. He was sitting reading The Guardian. I thought he looked nice, wearing black.’ British Rail kept making them change platform to get back on the same train. ‘He started an ‘Oh, bloody British Rail’ sort of conversation.’

When they arrived, they stood talking for 20 minutes. By coincidence, he was building a set for the National Theatre and Fiona was working there in Baby Doll. And he lived round the corner from her. ‘A week later we went out, two weeks later he moved in with me, and a month later he proposed.’ They gave themselves time to be sure of their feelings. Then they married in Lewisham register office. ‘I wanted it to be just us and the dog, and we got permission for the dog. Then our parents seemed miserable. So we invited close family.’

When she was 18, Fiona became anorexic. How did she get through it? ‘By doing nothing about it. Everybody pretended it wasn’t happening.’ Then she started to eat continuously. ‘I put on masses of weight and went up to size 16. We just pretended it was normal.’ Still she’s conscious of her weight. ‘In the mirror I always see myself as big.’ Nowadays her compulsiveness manifests itself differently. ‘I’m a workaholic.’

RANDOM drugs tests are to be carried out on about 12,000 prisoners a year to combat the growing narcotics problem in jails.

It’s estimated that nearly half the inmates of British prisons take self-prescribed medication (heroin, LSD, cannabis and the like) while detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. That’s a prison population of 49,000 in England and Wales alone. So the forthcoming tests should provide enough material and statistics for Prison Service paper shufflers to write off an entire rainforest.

But aren’t they locking the cell after the criminal has bolted? Isn’t this approach comparable to giving HIV tests and forgetting about condoms and safe-sex education? Can it really be effective to discipline a hopeless junkie whose test proves positive?

Many prisoners are inside due to their addiction, rather than because they are inherently criminal. Addicts deal in drugs or steal to support their habit, commit crimes of violence when drunk or stoned, and up to half of all property crime (the cost of which has soared to £4 billion a year) is drug-related.

The Addictive Diseases Trust, a pioneering charity, is fighting successfully against spiralling crime by treating prison inmates for substance abuse. The ADT programme – the first to establish itself full-time in a penal institution, Downview Prison, Surrey – has rehabilitated a third of those it has treated. Remove people from the cycle of addiction and prison and many will cease to reoffend.

The drug tests cost £12 each – which is partly why they haven’t been used before on a wide scale in prisons – and the number of notified addicts has risen fivefold since 1982.

By contrast, £1,500 is required to put an inmate through the ADT programme. So it wouldn’t be logical to press the Prison Service to provide statutory funding.

After all, it only costs £23,000 a year to keep someone in prison. I’M THE only journalist ever to have met Michael Jackson privately in over a decade, unless you count Oprah Winfrey. I spent several hours with him last year. Just after the beleaguered star cut short his world tour and admitted an addiction to pain killers. At the time, the world’s journalists were searching the globe for him and The Sun was offering £10,000 for a sighting or photograph.

Jackson arrived heavily disguised in a red satin face mask and was driven in a Toyota Previa with clear glass windows and children in it. I was prevented, both then and now, from writing about our meeting, professionally the hardest thing I’ve ever had to bear. A number of legal and personal constraints impeded me from so doing, and I awaited an interview which has not yet transpired. (In my memoirs he’ll appear in heavily camouflaged form, wearing a blue silk face mask.) He didn’t strike me as the marrying type. But last week it was reported that he wed Lisa Marie Presley. Surely the papers missed something out. That Elvis was there.

The exposure of my inflexible friend SINCE I was given a piggy, I’ve banked with National Westminster. Unquestioningly, I queued and phoned my branch and held the line for so long my mum could have baked a souffl. This year they improved and gave me a personal account manager, so I had someone dealing with my individual requirements. One to one service which concentrated the mind wonderfully on the cheque books that never arrived.

Recently, I received a customer service questionnaire asking about my experience of Nat West over the last six months. The bank sends 132,000 of these to a random selection every month, and 20 per cent respond. I’m not normally one to fill in holiday competitions, coupons and finish the ditties on the packet of Persil, but I did it.

I considered it at length. Mulled such options as “The branch has made no effort to provide enough staff to satisfy demand” and “More often than not they’ve made a mistake” and “Have you had to give all the details to more than one person before they found someone who could answer your question properly?”

Then I moved my account to The Royal Bank of Scotland.

Care but no attention HOSPITAL authorities were only alerted to the disappearance of a pensioner who had offered himself as a guinea pig for medical students in a Manchester hospital when his relatives became worried. He was discovered on 9 July in the hospital lavatory, dead. He’d been there for 19 hours, and his grief-stricken family are calling for an inquiry.

Equally tragic is the tale of a man who last year went to Bart’s for his heart-outpatients appointment. He signed in and was dispatched along the corridor to see his consultant. He never arrived, and nobody noticed. Two weeks later he was discovered, decomposing in the gents.

Fortunately, all is not gloomy. I have a friend who is a renal specialist in a major London hospital. Returning to work after a short holiday, he made a brisk walk round the wards. Then he discovered a cheerful chap in stripy pyjamas lying on a trolley in the corridor.

My friend asked him how he was. The gentleman pulled the blankets up under his chin, but said he felt all right. My friend, noticing something amiss, enquired whether he’d completed the admission procedure. The man replied that he thought so. ‘I have been here a week,’ he replied. Overpriced facilities Bargain hunter: Betty Boothroyd IMISSED the redoubtable Betty Boothroyd, who opened the Harrods sale, and I ended up standing mournfully outside what rank among the world’s most expensive lavatories. Or luxury ladies’ washrooms, in Fayedspeak. The lavatories cost £250,000: each cistern and bowl was over £10,000, the room is fitted with £40,000-worth of Italian marble and you wave your hand in front of an infra-red sensor at the basin to turn on the water. Entry costs £1. This buys a swipe card which operates the electronic sensor to the inner sanctum. (Harrods card? That’ll do nicely.) About 300,000 people went to the top people’s store on the first day of the sale. All the women I saw shrieked in disbelief and headed off for a free pee round the corner. Only 400 could afford to spend more than a penny.

Who said the recession was lifting?

MANDY Smith, former wife of Rolling Stone Bill Wyman, would like to become a barrister. They are, she says, the ones up there doing it. She wants also to ‘do more journalism’ and interview Princess Diana. ‘She’s Cancer and Charles is Scorpion (sic),’ explains television presenter Mandy, ‘and I’m Cancer and Bill’s Scorpion.’ She is keen to dispel the bimbo image, has dyed her blonde hair to thinking woman’s chestnut and talked her life story into a book, It’s All Over Now.

Mandy’s mother Patsy, half a century old and in leggings, answered the door with an accommodating manner and the face of a victim. The house is obsessively spotless, with frou-frou curtains, Fantasia video, two Yorkshire terriers and 90ft garden. A silent pectoral type stands in the kitchen: Pat Van Den Hauwe, Mandy’s husband and Millwall footballer. Mandy is running late, upstairs.

She was 13 and lived on a council estate when Bill, 47, seduced her. ‘It was like I was much older, not a 13-year-old in little socks and school skirt,’ she says. It was a shocking pre-pubescent affair which led to her marriage at 19 and divorce at 21. After the marriage, she wasted to 5 1/2 stone and was close to death.

Now 23, she looks exceedingly pretty even in a track-suit and with seriously medallioned sunglasses for a hairband. She has a tan, healthy figure, big chestnut eyes framed with charcoal make-up and Cartlandesque lashes, veneers on her teeth and French-polished nails so long they could hold up a picture. But she has smelly breath. She ate millet and soya milk for breakfast.

She has pulled herself back from the brink, partly with religion. She was raised a Catholic and her book is dedicated to, among others, ‘the dear Lord God above’. ‘Yeah, He’s important to me,’ says Mandy, who speaks with a lazy norf London accent and drops her aitches.

‘I don’t think He gets enough recognition for what he does. Look at all the lovely animals you can have.’ She prays ‘up to 10 times a day,’ normally for 10 minutes. ‘I don’t even realise I’m doing it. Sometimes I’m watching telly and, if it isn’t interesting, I’ll go into a trance for 10 minutes and chat to God.’

What is her concept of the Almighty? ‘He’s a busy person, but always finds a bit of time to talk to you when you need it. If He can’t, He’s got all these angels and saints. Saint Antony is always helping me out. I have a quick chat with him an hour before I go out. I say, ‘St Antony, you around? I’m going into town, need to park and you know what it’s like’.’ She always finds a space. It may, she says, be coincidence.

We’re sitting in Mandy’s white conservatory. She shares her Muswell Hill home with Pat and her sister Nicola. Patsy has moved out but works here, as Mandy’s agent. A year ago, Patsy broke up with Stephen Wyman, 33, reportedly at Mandy’s wedding. Mandy becomes cagey. Then lets slip that they’re back together.

‘When Bill found out, he wouldn’t talk to Stephen,’ she says. ‘He sacked him from work about six months ago and said, ‘If you go out with Patsy, I don’t want to see you.’ He was going to take Stephen out of his will.’ Now Bill and Stephen are reconciled and Stephen (‘he’s very clever’) works for his father, typing his next volume of autobiography.

How did Mandy feel when her mother started a romance with Stephen eight years ago? ‘It was like, ‘Oh God mum, how could you? He’s so young, he’s Bill’s son and what will people think?’ But before she went out with a man who drank a lot and lived with his mother.’

Isn’t there something unnerving about such a rivalrous, competitive mother stepping on her patch? ‘Oh no, no. We’re not like that at all.’ How does Mandy feel about Bill being so horrid about possibly becoming her step-grandfather? ‘I’d ask him for pocket money,’ she jokes, ‘a blank cheque.’

BILL gave Mandy a settlement of £580,000. ‘Take off the house and lawyers’ bills, and I was left with £50,000 which went on a tax bill. If I wanted money I’d have stayed with him.’

But why did her mother ‘sell’ her 13-year-old daughter? ‘She was really ill at the time and thought she was going to die – we didn’t know what of…’ (Mandy’s temper rises) ‘and he looked after me.’ Wasn’t it because he was a rich celebrity? ‘No, no. We weren’t impressed by people.’ Why didn’t Mandy help the police press child abuse charges? ‘I felt partly to blame, like it was my fault as well,’ she says, with the classic guilt of an abuse victim. ‘I fell in love with Bill. I wasn’t a little sex temptress. But I’d feel too guilty getting someone charged for sex abuse.’ Unsurprisingly, Mandy’s marriage to Pat hasn’t run smoothly. ‘I didn’t talk to Pat when we met because he was so shy. Now there can be a bit of a clash, two sensitive souls together. He becomes paranoid and aggressive,’ says Mandy.

In addition, Pat’s ex resents Mandy seeing their daughter. ‘Er, um, well Pat left her for me. I’m sorry, I’m not going to take the blame. It was his choice. I don’t know the woman. But she’s said a few stupid things on the phone to Pat about me. Like ‘I don’t want my child going over to that house’.’

Did Mandy believe her marriage vows to be for life? ‘I thought ‘I just hope it lasts’, but you have to be realistic. Who knows if it’ll last forever, for a year or two?’ Bill was unfaithful; how does she know that Pat is faithful? ‘Well, Bill wrote it down in his diary and Pat doesn’t keep a diary.’ Sex with Pat, she insists, is now all right. ‘I feel a bit more normal.’

Mandy has been helped by therapy. ‘Years ago a fan wrote recommending this woman. I thought ‘don’t bother’. Then one day when I was really desperate, I phoned her.’ Mandy went twice weekly for six months. ‘I felt better that it wasn’t a journalist I was speaking to. We talked about sex, feelings and my Dad leaving when I was three. He was a gambler and used to spend all the money.’

Mandy has also improved physically. She reckons she suffered from premenstrual syndrome (a hormonal imbalance) and allergies. ‘I was ill from 11 years old, but really bad in 1988 when I was in the Cromwell Hospital for six months,’ she says. ‘My self-esteem went down. Now I can get up and go out on my own every day. I used to need someone with me constantly. I always felt ill and faint. I thought I was going to die.’

She eats three tofu-style meals a day, plus starchy snacks, and spends ‘at least two hours’ in the gym daily. ‘If I can’t go to the gym during the day, I try to go at night.’ Her food faddishness and compulsive exercising sound like anorexia. ‘In my doctor’s and my eyes, it’s PMS. I know many doctors thought I was just anorexic and a crank trying to hide it.’ She’s spent £20,000 on doctors in the last two years ‘on a Chinese herbalist, acupuncturist, doctor, counselling’. The court awarded her £100,000 for medical fees.

ANGELA Rippon hides her feelings cleverly. She controls her face and emotions as if she’s on screen. She’s professionally nice, like a Tory lady at a fund-raising garden fete, talks becomingly, looks squeaky clean, drinks mint tea and smiles vocationally.

But she becomes visibly flustered about sex in her broken 22-year marriage. And laughs with thespian disregard when denying her alleged love affair with the former husband of the Princess Royal, Captain Mark Phillips. We meet in the fashionable Halcyon hotel because Angela refuses to allow journalists into the privacy of her home. She’s well known for refusing to answer questions, saying it’s personal. She introduces herself with a deliberately strong handshake, direct eye contact and green room friendliness. She’s shorter and smaller off camera, neat in pink and white check linen jacket and what she’d probably call slacks.

She looks youthful, 49 years old, with the famous arched eyebrows, square face, lovely eyes, clear complexion and sensibly fluffed up hair; an image befitting the Angel of her name. But there’s something unauthentic about her voice. Perhaps a repressed anger beneath the extreme niceness? Angela was a big celebrity in the days before Hello! made everybody one. She became the first woman BBC newsreader in 1976, revealed her legs when she danced out from behind the newsreader’s desk on Morecambe and Wise, presented television coverage of Crufts, shimmered across the ballroom floor compering Come Dancing, appeared on intellectually deep-frozen quiz shows like What’s My Line and grilled politicians on LBC.

In 1990 it was reported that she was Britain’s best-paid female media star. That she’d signed a £100,000-a-year contract with LBC. ‘I wasn’t earning anything like that,’ she says now. ‘People have always thought of a figure, doubled it and added a couple of noughts where my salary is concerned.’

Last week Angela quit her job at LBC, 24 hours after learning that she wouldn’t be required by London Radio when it takes over from franchise-loser LBC in October. (She’d already lost her morning news programme under the former LBC management.) She attributes this to her strong association with the old station and her high profile with LBC. ‘I’ve won four awards in the last four years,’ says Angela, speaking restrainedly.

Angela says that the parting was not acrimonious. Yet a London Radio spokesman was last week quoted as saying: ‘What need is there on radio for former TV personalities?’ Does she take these knocks personally? ‘You can’t,’ she replies. ‘You can’t buckle under every time someone says: ‘Thank you, we don’t want to employ you’. You’d end up destroyed and a hollow shell. You’d jump in a hole and never be seen again.’

Angela the celebrity has been toughing it out for the last 20 years. Her job loss is her third such major blow. As soon as TV-am got its licence, the BBC eased Angela out of her newsreading job. ‘I was called in on a Wednesday and told ‘don’t come in on Monday’. At the time you feel quite hurt, but you can’t make people employ you.’ Then two months after she started at TV-am, as one of the Famous Five who helped launch it, she was sacked ignominiously. ‘That was horrendous. I’d never want to live through that again.’

Her most recent demise marks the end of an era. ‘When I started in television 27 years ago, there was very little I could do without getting into the Press,’ she admits. ‘Now I’m not in that spotlight or rarefied goldfish bowl quite as often or long. Celebrity has become diluted. It takes the heat off you.’ Now she’ll continue her television series about The Entertainers – interviews with Mike Yarwood and suchlike – and finish a Remembrance Day special for Radio 2.

Angela was the only child of an engineer and china shop manageress. ‘I was a tom-boy, not at all rebellious as a teenager and being an only child made me self-sufficient, but my friends are very important.’ She was raised in a small council house (“a normal working-class family’) in the suburbs of Plymouth. She went to grammar school, gained nine O-levels and left, aged 17, a term before she was due to take A-levels. ‘There was an opportunity to work on a newspaper. The job was there, so I took it.’

She met Christopher Dare, her first serious boyfriend and a car parts dealer, when she was 17 at a YMCA dance. In 1990 their marriage ended but they’ve not yet divorced. ‘There are all sorts of complications.’ She won’t reveal them. Why did they break up? ‘Oh we just grew apart.’ What changed after 22 years? ‘Oh, lots of things.’

Christopher has a new partner, Angela doesn’t. Angela says they’re still good friends and talk weekly. ‘I still dine alone with my husband.’ She’s never met his new partner, she says, with an edge to her voice. Angela, who wears her engagement ring, is losing her composure.

Why did they never have children? ‘We just never had them.’ Because they didn’t want them? ‘Because it never happened.’ They tried and wanted them? She chokes on her tea. ‘We had a perfectly normal married life, but it just never happened.’ Did they have tests and so on? ‘No, we just compensated in other ways, by being busy and getting on with our lives.’ Did she feel unfulfilled or distressed? ‘No.’

What then of the rumour of an affair with Captain Mark Phillips? ‘It was a load of cobblers. I was simply writing his biography. He laughed it off and Princess Anne just said, ‘Oh, don’t take any notice,’ when the gossip started.’ Would she have liked to have had an affair with him? ‘It simply never crossed my mind.’

Now Angela can interview herself. ‘What is the most important question you could ask yourself?’ I ask, lamely. Angela ums and ahs. ‘Um,’ she says. ‘What makes me tick? The thing that makes me tick is that I enjoy what I do.’ I’m bored. Maybe she’s too private, too bland or too nice. ‘How would you get yourself talking about something you’ve never spoken about publicly before?’ I enquire. ‘What’s the most interesting personal question you would ask yourself?’

THIS week the stickers and banners have gone up all over London. Sales season is upon us. But, before you brave the glossy shops of Knightsbridge and Bond Street and pick up that discounted silk shirt or cut-price designer frock you couldn’t previously have afforded without a second mortgage, beware.

My own sorry saga began when I bought two suits and a cotton polo in the last Guy Laroche sale. At £760, including £40 for initial alterations, this was a high price for a couple of outfits. But many of us happily fork out under the pressure tactics of designer boutique sales assistants for slashed-price, end-of-season clothes with pre-sale price tags suggesting the garments are sewn with 18 carat gold. My mistake was not to pay so much, but to pay so much for clothes that I could not immediately walk away wearing. One suit needed just the buttons to be moved. A job executed perfectly. However, the £312 brown suit, a Herms-style riding jacket and skirt, needed more work. On 11 January Michelle Cuiec, the manageress, agreed that with a little nip and tuck for £20, the skirt would be more to my taste. Their delightful tailor pinned it.

When I returned to Bond Street to collect it, the skirt had been shortened, but not tapered as I’d asked. So they did it again. When I went back at the end of February, it still wasn’t done as I wanted. They did it yet again. Sometimes they made me pay for the alterations, sometimes they were free.

Once the skirt was changed, the jacket appeared proportionally too big. Being neither a professional seamstress nor fashion vendeuse, I’d have been grateful for prior notice of this simple aesthetic snare. Now the jacket badly required alteration. I made yet another trek to Bond Street on 12 March, complaining only a little.

Eventually, the skirt fitted beautifully. But as soon as I sat down it creased hideously. It looked disgusting. I was told this was a problem with the material and, astonishingly, that I shouldn’t sit when I was wearing it. As for the jacket … It was altered. And collected. And returned. ‘I can’t believe this,’ I wailed in a letter to the manageress. ‘It has been altered and made far tighter than ever we agreed. It is now difficult even to move my arms.’ Michelle was indignant. She implied that the fault was mine and suggested I see her to sort out the problem.

As I stood in my strait-jacket, Michelle told me the fit was perfect. My movement was still restricted. I insisted it be altered again. When finished, it pinched under the arms, pulled across the back and was uncomfortable to wear unless unbuttoned. For the price, plus the alterations, I wanted a suit I could wear. Or a refund. ‘Since you were quite happy with the jacket in January,’ Michelle wrote in May, ‘I suggest we put it back as it was originally.’ Unbelievable! I was furious. Now, perhaps I made a mistake in requesting the work done. However, if sales staff are only too keen to suggest that with slight alteration a garment will be perfect, should they not also point out when alterations are unwise?

I am not the only one to have a sad story from the sales. Sandra Yarwood is an economics graduate and producer of Beg, a film snapped up for the Edinburgh film festival and showing soon in a cinema near you. But when she chose a Cerruti sale mix ‘n’ match jacket and long skirt reduced to £438, she lost her financial sense. Like many before her, her judgment left with the thought of a sale bargain.

‘The jacket fitted but the skirt was a size too small,’ says Sandra. ‘It was too tight, particularly around the hips.’ They didn’t have her size, but the assistant said it could be let out and the tailor agreed. So she paid for the suit, and £20 for alterations.

ON THE day it was meant to be ready, it wasn’t. ‘I was furious, but they delivered it free of charge a few days later.’ She tried it on. ‘It looked revolting. It was badly puckered at the seams. Typical woman, I blamed myself and thought, ‘I shouldn’t have bought it’.’

Cerruti had said it didn’t take responsibility for alterations. She decided to forget the matter. Then she thought: ‘It’s from Cerruti, not Boutique El Cheapo. I’ve never spent so much on a suit.’ Back to Bond Street. There the assistant agreed the skirt was ‘all wrong’ and returned it to the tailor. A few days later, Sandra collected it eagerly. All the tailor had done was iron it.

Cerruti sent it to another tailor. A month after she’d paid for it, Sandra collected it again. ‘They’d let it out at the hips. But it’s so narrow at the bottom that I could hardly walk in it,’ she says glumly. ‘It’s just not my size.’

The first time she wore it, it ripped badly. ‘Now I can just about move in it but it’s still highly uncomfortable.’ Surely the vendor should have pointed out these pitfalls before doing the work?

‘I felt it was my decision, and that it was an expensive lesson,’ she replies, ruefully. ‘But I won’t ever again buy anything that needs altering.’

ON THE phone Sir Antony Buck says he wants to be paid for talking to me. No chance! So he taunts that he may sell his story elsewhere.

He sounds like a conceited thespian, with the comic tones of a Hermoine Gingold, says a mid-morning interview would be gruellingly early and eventually demands nothing more than copies of The Sun and Daily Telegraph so he doesn’t have to go out.

Sir Antony, 65, the distinguished former Tory MP and navy minister, talks about his sex life, his 34-year marriage to Judy and his infidelities; of meeting the notorious Bienvenida Perez-Blanco when he was 61 and she 33 (‘Any chance of a Buck?’ was one memorable headline) and marrying three weeks later; and of his most recent marriage to Tamara Norashkaryan, the Russian tourist who turned up on his doorstep bearing a press cutting about him.

We meet at Sir Antony’s rented Kennington flat. Tamara ‘dislikes publicity’ and has gone out. But today Bienvenida has revealed in The Sun that she was a £1,000-a-night prostitute. ‘I don’t think Bienvenida was a hooker. Darling, I know her better than you,’ says Sir Antony, later. ‘She’s just behaving irrationally.’

Sir Antony wears longish hair, a grubby navy cardigan and has an unlit cigar in his mouth. His hands shake and he’s absent minded, asking four times how I take coffee. He breathes raspily and has a smoker’s cough. ‘I don’t cough,’ he says, after one outbreak. His tiny drawing room has grimy whitewashed walls, fake flowers and a collection of silver Lucifer boxes, red ministerial box and a picture of his hero, Winston Churchill. Since Sir Antony shot to notoriety – when Bienvenida, who had an affair with Chief of Defence Staff Sir Peter Harding while she was married to Sir Antony and then colluded in Sir Peter’s entrapment by a newspaper – we’ve been treated to a glut of increasingly preposterous and sordid stories. Sir Antony, for example, introduced Bienvenida to Judge Harkess; and then she introduced the family to public relations man Max Clifford to help them purge themselves publicly of their torrid ‘Alan Clark’s sex coven’ scandal. But last week Sir Antony won the award for vainglorious behaviour when he went on television to talk about his new-found happiness and to take ‘custody’ of his beloved King Charles spaniels while wives numbers two and three kissed and Tamara stormed off saying she’d leave for ever because she heard Sir Antony call Bienvenida ‘darling’.

Why on earth has Sir Antony encouraged the chronicling of these absurd goings on? ‘You can’t stop the publicity when photographers and reporters are stacked up outside the house.’ But did he have to take charge of his dogs on camera? ‘Well I’ve got to go out.’ He maintains that years in politics taught him that it’s best to co-operate with the Press. Isn’t his publicity-seeking simply excessive vanity? ‘What’s it got to do with vanity?’ he stumbles. ‘I don’t want this.’

HE claims he hasn’t made money from the stories. ‘Darling, I’ve made nothing.’ But last week he spoke to Max Clifford. What did the king of kiss ‘n’ tell suggest? ‘That’s a matter for me and him.’ Suffice to say that it was Sir Antony who approached Max.

Sir Antony fits the Max mould. He talks enthusiastically about his sex life. ‘I’m not a sex maniac,’ he says. ‘I’m a perfectly normal heterosexual with healthy urges. I’ll have sex until I stop feeling like it. Some men continue into their 80s.’ Is he a good lover? ‘I’m average. Never had any complaints.’ Well, what of Bienvenida’s allegation that he took two years to consummate their marriage? ‘Absolute nonsense. We consummated it at once.’ The younger son of an agricultural merchant (father) and founder member (mother) of The Royal College of Nursing, he joined the army and served in Berlin during the blockade. Next he went to Cambridge, where he read history and law and was chairman of Cambridge University Conservative Association and college captain of swimming. ‘I got a first-class degree in my first year, second in my second and third in my third. It wasn’t the rake’s progress.’

In 1961 he became MP for Colchester, holding the seat for 30 years. He’s particularly proud of his time as navy minister. (He has discussed the Bienvenida revelations with his political friend Sir Geoffrey Howe. ‘I don’t ask his advice.’) His first marriage ended in divorce after three decades. ‘Judy fell in love with somebody else. The strains of political life didn’t help,’ he says, leaning forward on his tatty sofa. Was he faithful? ‘For a very long time, yes.’ Did his infidelity contribute to their break up? ‘She wasn’t keen to come to London, so one got lonely.’ Now they rarely communicate. (They have a daughter, Louisa, sometime radio presenter. The recent revelations have also put a strain on his relationship with her.) Sir Antony’s downfall has also been financial. ‘I have very little money.’ He lived with Judy in a Georgian house with a swimming pool, but sold it when the marriage dissolved. Later Bienvenida took a ‘substantial’ sum; he refuses to disclose the figure. ‘I might claw it back, but you can’t get blood out of a stone. I have very little money.’

WE come thus to Bienvenida. He deems her revelations ‘sad and sordid’, but doesn’t regret the relationship. ‘I don’t know why we married so quickly. Mutual attraction, I suppose.’ Was she attracted to his title, charm or good looks? ‘I’m not particularly any of those things. We just got on and had a rapport.’ He denies her claim that he abused her physically. ‘The only time was when she attacked me. It was in self-defence after she’d had too much to drink.’

Sir Antony doesn’t feel that Tamara, last seen in a fury on television, heralds more trouble. ‘There’s a stability in her and intellect.’ Doesn’t he find it suspect that she hunted him down after reading about him? ‘No, she saw a picture of me with the dogs and thought she’d like to meet the dogs.’ Sir Antony’s nemesis is shocking. He tries very hard to present an optimistic front. He looks uncomfortable when I ask whether he suffers from depression – ‘we all have periods of depression. But I’m not a depressive, I don’t get bitterly depressed’ – claiming he’s phlegmatic. He denies that his drinking habits are excessive. ‘Nonsense. I don’t drink three bottles a day. Just a bottle of wine a day. I’m not an alcoholic.’

IS TENNIS in terminal decline? At the goldfish bowl of the Stella Artois finals day at Queens Club, the smattering of rent-a-celebs watched the singles. Those with their eye on the ball were such notables as Roger Moore and his daughter Deborah, the ubiquitous Ivana Trump and on-off lover Riccardo Mazzuchelli, and Baroness Fiona Thyssen.

But then a funny thing happened. They repaired for tea with adman Frank Lowe, president of the Stella tournament, and many of them didn’t bother to go back to watch the doubles. Conspicuous by their presence were Stefanie Powers and her French husband Patrick de la Chenais, who returned to sit with his arm bleakly round her shoulder.

Here was hard as new ball evidence of the trouble with tennis. That the game is losing its audience, fans are bored, that its spectacle is being killed by champion introverts like Pete Sampras, PC Plod umpires and one-dimensional (the dimension is apathy) players who don’t rally and care about nothing but the upwardly mobile money prizes.

Gone are the days of controversial players like ‘Nasty’ Ilie Nastase who reduced umpires to stuttering wrecks and drew fans as much for his racquet as his racket. Who played a fine game and bought umbrellas on court, used his racquet as a cane, dropped his drawers and with today’s fines would have clocked about $10,000 a match.

LAST week he played a veterans’ tournament, The Hurlingham Seniors, at the eponymous club. He arrived exceedingly late, came in naked-eyed from the blazing sunshine, sat down in the dark club room and put on his Ray-Ban shades for the interview. He thinks today’s stars lack flash and panache. ‘I don’t want to take away from the players’ talent. But the way they play I don’t like,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses for optimum effect. The way the game is played by most of the players today has killed the spectators. The game is different and too physical. There are less rallies because they smash stronger, hit harder. And they play too much tennis. They get tired and can’t perform their best most of the time.

‘It’s also less fun. They have managers and sponsors which we didn’t – we just got on and played tennis and enjoyed it – and business pressures and sponsorship which mean they are not free to do what they want. Of course there are good tennis players, but they don’t have the personalities of champions. I hope in the future we’ll have more McEnroes and Connors. We have Agassi, but that’s not enough. But you can’t make personalities, they have to be born.’

Could he have beaten most of today’s stars with a wooden racquet? ‘I dunno. In my prime, I think yes.’

Some of Nasty’s thoughts are echoed by the ‘Rockhampton Rocket’, Rod Laver, the shy Australian who was a spectacularly aggressive player and one of the greatest in tennis history. ‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ he says, laughing. ‘I just enjoyed the game, played hard and had a prolonged career. These days a lot of players find they can’t because of disinterest, injuries or family situations.’

He doesn’t hold that there’s a ‘whole lot wrong with tennis’ but thinks Wimbledon spectators should be politely presented with a questionnaire asking: ‘What do you think is wrong with tennis and what are your suggestions for what could be done?’

‘I suspect many would answer that tennis just takes too long for the modern world. You can watch a match for four hours and think, ‘Gee nice tennis, but it’s just too long.”

Sitting under the flight-path skies of Hurlingham, he blames the ‘transition’ in tennis partly on technology. ‘When we were around, you couldn’t blast the ball with a wooden racquet.’

He thinks the court should be slowed down, the ball changed less frequently (‘so it gets heavier and softer’), the timing between points changed (‘to go back and get a towel after every second or third point is wrong’), ends changed after three games and a couple of months a year where points are not awarded.

He’s mindful of what he dubs the changing of the guard. ‘The new players don’t have charisma and haven’t learned to relate to the public as spectators.’ Fans may prefer the extravagant dramas of Agassi or the agonies of an air-punching Boris Becker. But the exuberant era of crotch-plucking Jimmy Connors and bad-mouthing superbrat John McEnroe has passed. ‘There’s huge prize money out there,’ says Laver. ‘So you can’t say, ‘I’m going to be the clown, the court jester and lose matches.’ That’s not going to get you into the draw next week.’

Indeed Laver is in awe of Sampras, despite his winning matches but not hearts. ‘People should be bowing at his feet. He’s such a great talent, so dedicated to the sport and playing his best tennis under pressure.’ COLUMNIST, tennis player and erstwhile match spectator Taki Theodoracopulos demurs. Now a veteran, Taki has played with ‘Emo’ Roy Emerson and Ken Rosewall, who was known as one of the greatest little men ever to play the game. ‘I make a point of not watching modern tennis or going anywhere near any tournaments,’ he retorts, from New York after a rough night on the town.

‘Life consists of trying not to watch the horror and behaviour of these complaining, whining humanoids. Everyone wants to see his fellow man make money. But this is too much. They make too much and try too little with tie breaks and the best of three. It’s bullshit compared with what it was.’ Larry Adler, mouth organist cum tennis opponent of Victor Lownes and Martin Amis, is equally scathing. ‘Players aren’t what they used to be. Jim Courier could walk through Piccadilly Circus without his baseball cap on and nobody would recognise him.’

Adler plays every day – ‘Cinderella tennis. I never get to the ball’ – except when he’s snowed off. Ten days ago he had an angioplasty heart operation, but was back on court two days later. And he was a fanatically keen spectator for a decade.

‘I used to sit just where the players walk on centre court at Wimbledon. They had practically to climb over me.’

LIONA is 12 and has never smiled. She is physically handicapped, doesn’t speak and doesn’t play. Then she was taken to Thorpe Park on an outing. Suddenly her classmates gathered round her excitedly. Liona was smiling. This was Kids Out, an event involving thousands of boys and girls, including 2,300 from London. As Liona gave her first smile, other disabled and deprived children elsewhere were at 100 similar events.

This was an annual day out for children with special needs, started in 1990, organised by Rotary clubs and Littlewoods and funded with money from race nights, raffles and bands to sponsorship.

Putney Rotary Club President Alan Davies talked 150 businessmen into taking the day off work to drive 300 local children, with police escorts and orange balloons, to Thorpe Park. And the Metropolitan Police provided the lunch boxes they have when they go on uptown demonstrations: egg or corned beef sandwich, juice, Twix and apple.

I meet Alan at 9am at Paddock School, Roehampton. A girl sits in a wheelchair, head dropped backwards. ‘You are a pretty girl,’ says headmistress Nora Evans, affectionately. Another child stops and hugs Nora and strokes her hair. ‘Smooth hair,’ she intones. ‘Yes, very smooth,’ replies Nora. The child is autistic and suffers obsessions, the latest for smooth hair.

‘Where’s your hearing aid? We’re going on a picnic today,’ a teacher tells a youngster, in sign language. The child jumps, exuberantly. Nearby another is strapped into a wheelchair, his tongue lolling and his wrists bound loosely together. His face lights up with pleasure at the news. Four classes, ages 7 to 16, with severe learning difficulties and profound and multiple disabilities are coming on Kids Out.

In the car park by the windmill on Wimbledon Common we meet the others. Hundreds of youngsters, blind children from Linden Lodge, and disadvantaged ones chattering animatedly. A Rotarian clown squawks amid the parked cars and the mayor of Wandsworth looks on with her chain of office over her raincoat.

Eleven-year-olds Paul and Cally are in our black Audi coupe when I return. ‘This yours?’ demands Paul, cheerfully. ‘Well I gotta tell yer, you’re sitting in the back.’ Then he plays happily with the electric windows. ‘Put your head in the window. I promise I won’t chop it off.’ Paul looks at my fiance, Adrian. ‘So who’s this Adrian? You love him? You been to bed with him?’

These boys are from Chartfield School, Putney, a school for maladjusted children. (A ‘delicate’ school, says one teacher.) Cally is sensitive, gentle featured and reticent about his illness. But Paul is bullish about being dyslexic and asthmatic.

Three schoolmates in another car chip in. One has cystic fibrosis, another severe learning difficulties. ‘I was bullied at school,’ says the third, dolefully.

PAUL sings ‘Hit the road, Jack,’ as we set off. I say he is a groovy guy. ‘I ain’t gay,’ he responds, heatedly. Do they want crisps and chocolate? ‘I don’t have colourings, I’m allergic,’ he says. For miles up the A3 we can see nothing but cars with purple streamers and Kids Out balloons. Cally says that he wants to be a doctor, to save people’s lives. ‘Don’t,’ implores Paul. ‘You’re too short and won’t be able to reach the bed.’ They discover Adrian works in a bank. ‘Why don’t you rob it? I won’t tell anyone,’ says Paul, waggishly. ‘That’s bad,’ says Cally.

All the children are let into Thorpe Park for free. Their £10 ticket charge is waived and adult helpers pay less than half price. Thorpe Park is buzzing with children in wheelchairs, walking unsteadily, running chaotically and beaming genially. We go rowing, sit in a spinning tea cup, hazard a dinghy on the Depth Charge daredevil water slide, eat from the Sweet Palace and watch virtual reality. They scream with the thrill and the fear. Then they stand mesmerised by two ducklings. The Rotarians began in Britain in 1911, solid citizens and prominent businessmen dedicated to worthy causes. Normally straight laced, they have a fuddy-duddy image. The battle over female membership lasted seven years in the States. But they raised £67 million to immunise children worldwide against polio. And now Paul and Cally are standing joshing in front of me. Paul says he wants to drive home in a BMW or Mercedes. A jolly Rotarian offers his, ‘clapped out Peugeot with bank burgling equipment in it.’ The children look gleeful.