Goodbye Liz. That’s what we called you in Fleet Street – never Elizabeth. You were all right. I liked the fact that once while breakfasting on the aft deck of your motor-cruiser up in the Pool of London, you and Richard Burton invited a fellow bargeman and his mate aboard for tea and toast.

They were just humble working men of the river sculling by in their clinker skiff. But it was a summer’s day and what the hell.

That was typical of you. I also salute the fact that you didn’t answer my question about your latest beau when I doorstepped your home in Chelsea. In fact you didn’t say anything, but smiled sweetly and hopped in the black taxi that was waiting.

RIP

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