Sunday Times Magazine, Relative Values article


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Julian and I were interviewed for The Sunday Times Magazine’s regular slot, ‘Relative Values’. I was really thrilled to be asked to do it, as I’ve long enjoyed reading it. It’s interesting to see what two people say about each other, and whether they choose the same things to talk about. Julian and I didn’t discuss the interviews at all, which were conducted separately. So it was rather  nice to see that we reflected each other quite closely, both in terms of our language and the points we raised.

(Only one small point too add – I told the interviewer I was brought up in Deptford, not New Cross, but some fact-checking sub-editor clearly saw fit to change that. If you come from Sarf East London, you’ll know these tribal zones matter!)

Anyway, for those that would like to read it – here it is…


PS My hair for this shoot was by the Paul Edmonds salon, to whom I’d like to say, thanks!

Downton Abbey trailer…#countdownton #downtonfever


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lady-maryApologies to those in other territories around the world but here in Britain, Downton fever has started ramping up. This weekend finally saw the release of the trailer for series four and it’s living up to the promise on the strength of this montage. As we’d expect, there are tears, kisses, a fair-but-stern line from Violet, the Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) and gorgeous dresses. But there’s also a generous sprinkling of new characters – of whom perhaps one or two may be potential new suitors for Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery) and, as we head further into the racy 1920s, there’s a loosening of the stays with jazz and the naughty Lady Rose getting a starring role.

So, I’m excited. When the show kicks off proper, I’ll be live-tweeting during the episodes to explain historical elements or just point and laugh at any characters I recognise as having taken inspiration from the Fellowes family. The series will begin six months after Matthew’s death, near the end of 1922, and beyond that I cannot say any more. But rest assured, as soon as I can – I will! Discussions of the characters, storylines and historical context will be found here and on Twitter. I’m also doing some more talks in London and the US – see the Calendar for more details. And in the meantime, you might like to pop along to Bampton, the real-life Oxfordshire village that serves as the location for Downton – I’ve just opened an exhibition there showing some of the costumes from the show, which is on for a month. See more here: West Ox Arts.

For a Downton fix now, you can watch the trailer HERE.


Feminism 1913-2013 and why there’s still more work to be done


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One of the more extraordinary discoveries in my research for the Downton Abbey books and subsequent talks that hang their hat on the TV show, was that of the ‘Surplus Women’. After the First World War it was widely acknowledged that Britain had lost an entire generation of men and so it was quickly realised that the logical consequence was a shortage of men for women to marry.

Newspaper reports in 1919 wrote of the misery of the ‘one million women’ who would never know love or marriage. Then, after the 1921 Census, it was realised that there were in fact almost two million more women than men in the UK. If you added in the 1.7 million men who returned from war injured in some way, whether physically or mentally, many of whom were unfit for work, marriage or fathering children, then you were dealing with a lot of women who were destined for spinsterhood. Given that a woman’s education pre-war consisted of the little more than the three Rs (reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic) so she could at least write her shopping list and manage her home finances but not, you know, go to university (a very few did even though they were not allowed to actually earn a degree), this meant that a great number of these women simply didn’t know what to do instead. They had been trained for marriage and now marriage wasn’t an option.

Downton Abbey reflects this particularly well with the daughters, Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Sybil. Julian said of them that upper class women pre-war could find independence and power only through their marriages; if they married well, they might run a house to which people of influence would come and stay. But so long as they were unmarried they had to live at home and under the rules of their parents. (Middle class women had little power and influence in the wider sphere, and working class women none at all except within their own communities.)

The war changes this, although not for everybody. Mary was prepared to find power the old-fashioned way, with a suitable husband, said Julian. Sybil wanted it the new way – via progressive politics and the Suffragette movement. And Edith? She just wants ‘anything she can get’. Poor Edith. But she is the one who best demonstrates the complete turnaround in expectation for women of the time.

[As an aside, it was this excess of women that meant they didn't get full suffrage in 1919. Only women over the age of 30, who were householders, could vote. Not until 1928 could both men and women over the age of 21 vote. There was a concern that women voters would outnumber male voters after the war – and it would have been far too risky to let women decide who should run the country. Really, they were better off thinking about kittens than politics.]

Editorials referred to ‘the problem of the Surplus Women’ and there were even articles suggesting that they be shipped off the Colonies to find husbands there. But while there were women who had lost fiancés or husbands during the war – as well as brothers, fathers, cousins and friends – and had been left broken-hearted, alongside the many women who pined with the genuine, acute frustration of never knowing marriage or motherhood, there were others still who saw that they had been freed.

Unmarried, they could not be kept behind the front door of their home, chained to a lifetime of domesticity, but instead could go out to work. (It wasn’t viable for all those women to stay with their parents and the advent of motor cars, fast growth of cities and new jobs made it easier for them to leave.) Singledom was no longer a sign of failure but circumstance. They became teachers all too frequently but also secretaries, researchers, scientists, doctors, shop proprietors and telephonists to name but a very few. They were often poorly paid as they were not judged to need equal pay to a man who would, after all, have dependents. They were frequently lonely, seeking their camaraderie from women in similar circumstances, living in blocks of tiny bedsits, all trooping off to work during the week. All the same, there were others who did it jubilantly and others who, by dint of their hard work and penury, inspired even men to alter things. But many men were terrified that women would rule the world and a propaganda campaign was run in which women were reminded that their place was in the home, looking after the men, not stealing their jobs. The fact that there were hardly any men to marry was conveniently left off the posters. Guilt and loneliness: a winning combination.

Nonetheless, these women created the change and push for equality that we enjoy today. It is sometimes argued that had it not been for the loss of the men between 1914 and 1918 and the bold steps the women left behind took in their place, the female position in society would have been slowed down by about 20 years.*

When I talk about this subject I like to highlight the fact that the world has changed enormously since then – less than a hundred years ago – and that we have those women, our grandmothers and great-grandmothers, to thank for many of those changes. But then, sometimes, now and again, or…alright, almost every bleeding day, I think… yes, there have been changes but not enough people. Not enough.

These are the reasons today that there’s still more to be done to change tomorrow.

1. Caroline Criado-Perez being issued with rape and death threats on Twitter – alongside her address – for having successfully campaigned for Jane Austen to be printed on ten pound notes.

2. Kate Middleton’s post-baby figure being discussed on the front cover of a magazine just one day after she has given birth. (Thanks, Katy Hill, for bringing this to attention.)

3. Any editor, whether for magazines or TV, who allows Katie Hopkins to say anything at all – they are providing rope for her to hang herself with.

4. Words like ‘betch’ becoming cultural flashpoints almost overnight. See also: ‘Bitchy Resting Face’.

5. Ongoing: Page 3, the absence of properly funded childcare, unequal pay, young girls obsessing about their weight, single/childless women being regarded with suspicion.

There’s more, but that’ll do for now. More work, people. More work.

*If you want to read more on this subject, I highly recommend Virginia Nicholson’s book ‘Singled Out’, available HERE.

BBC TV Breakfast discusses Downton Abbey

BBC Breakfast

When you work for yourself, as I do, you must engage in the rather unseemly (it seems) act of self-promotion. With no corporate PR hired to cheer my latest publication, or monthly salary paid out to alert a boss to my presence, I must keep reminding readers to read me and commissioning editors to hire me. There is, in short, no supper for me unless I have sung for it, with my busker’s hat beside me.

So when I was called last Friday afternoon by the jolly Anthea in the BBC TV Breakfast production office and asked if I’d be interested in taking a train to Salford, Manchester, staying overnight and appearing for approx three and a half minutes before taking the train back again (a six hour round trip), for no fee, I barely hesitated before saying ‘yes’.

But the truth is, the six hours and the overnight in a Holiday Inn (you know, really not bad at all) were hardly downsides. I practically enjoyed myself. Uninterrupted reading time on the train and a whole night in bed with no duvet-stealers, large or small, to break my sleep… yeah, kinda nice. But I also enjoyed the process of the filming itself. I’ve done a few TV things now, from a BBC4 panel show (‘Never Mind the Fullstops’, hosted by my uncle, Julian Fellowes) to those lunchtime magazine shows, and despite the fact that almost anybody can get on the tellybox, there’s still something of the futuristic excitement about it that captivates the 1970s kid in me. There’s still something amazing about knowing that you are appearing in the corner of someone’s sitting-room, even if it’s only your own. Plus, I really like the hair and make-up bit (breakfast hair and make-up girls are renowned in the industry for being the best, given that they have the hardest job to do, making people look normal at 6am in less than ten minutes).

me in gym

It’s unusual to get asked to discuss Downton on the BBC, given that it’s an ITV show. (In a rather strange twist, the Brits watch Downton on commercial tv, ie interrupted by ads, and the Americans watch it on PBS, their nearest equivalent to the BBC in that it is partly funded by the government – though mostly funded through pledge drives – and therefore ad-free.) So they weren’t going to be talking about how lovely it all is – the ‘controversial’ line that my hosts took was that Downton Abbey was pandering to its American audience by introducing another American character – Harold, Cora’s playboy brother, to be played by Paul Giamatti in the final episode of the fourth series (broadcast in the UK on Christmas Day).


On the red sofa with me – we were being interviewed by Charlie Stayt and Louise Minchin – was Paul Allen, an arts critic. I imagine the idea was that we might disagree, but unfortunately for the producers, we didn’t. My line was that there was no pandering because Cora, the original American character as played by Elizabeth McGovern, was the genesis of the whole show.

In the very beginning, Julian and Gareth Neame (the executive producer) went out for supper to discuss another project that wasn’t achieving lift off. Gareth said to Julian that he thought he should revisit his Gosford Park territory for a TV show – early 20th century, big country house, ensemble cast, following characters both above stairs and below. Gosford Park was the movie directed by Robert Altman and scripted by Julian that won him an Oscar – it was, in other words, his major break into Hollywood and the film that changed his life forever. Julian said that to ask more of that territory was like asking lightening to strike twice in the same place, so he didn’t think he would do it.

But he went home and happened to be reading ‘To Marry An English Lord‘ by Carol Wallace and Gail MacColl (I’ve since become quite friendly with Carol and the book has been very successfully re-printed since the show began), which was all about the Buccaneers coming over to England in the 1890s and marrying into the aristocracy. He wondered what it would have been like to have been one of those women, leaving behind their friends, family and society in Wisconsin or Virginia or wherever, and find themselves in a freezing cold castle in Yorkshire some twenty years later. And so Cora was born, and the rest followed swiftly after…

There was no hard-headed thinking then about American audiences and what they would want. Shirley MacLaine was a brilliant injection into the show in the last series, and represented in just the right way how America felt to Britain in 1921. They were rich, vital, energetic and optimistic about the future. Sure, sometimes that felt brash, but it was a much-needed blast of fresh air in a country that was feeling depleted and bereaved after the war.

Paul Allen’s point was that casting an actor such as Paul Giamatti showed ingenuity in that he is a great character actor, not a classic leading man. He usually plays the geeky losers in cult movies, although in Sideways he was the geeky loser that got the girl, while the conventional handsome leading man turned out to be the bastard (poor Paul forgot we weren’t allowed to say that word on breakfast telly and got Charlie and Louise into a fluster of apologies to the viewers – it’s a pretty low-grade word that is clearly fine by 7pm. It’s probably fine by 1pm. I wonder if all the swear words have their own time slots on the BBC?).

Also, isn’t it usually the case that when we watch an American show we like it to be full of Americans? And Americans probably watch Brit shows for the same reasons? An anthropological study of  another nation, which is identifiably cast with characters that bear strong resemblances to but do not in fact live real lives as we recognise in our own. So when someone from your own country appears, it never feels like a comfortable fit. I was never very keen on Emily in ‘Friends’, though I like the actress in other shows and was mad about Ross, Rachel et al. However, I ought to stress here that I think the US characters work very well in Downton, these being rather more beautifully and sensitively written parts – what I mean to say is that one wouldn’t generally go about trying to do it deliberately in order to satisfy another country’s set of fans.

Three minutes or so of that and – all over. Thanks for the memories! Which, unfortunately, are all I have, as the You Tube clip someone put up of it has been taken down again for reasons I do not know, and the BBC don’t put their breakfast show on iPlayer. But that’s probably as it should be – a passing moment in telly, not something to be revered in posterity. We’ll leave that to the box sets and deservedly so.


PS. Er. The link got put back up. So I’ll stand by what I said about the box sets but if you do want to watch it, you can see it HERE. *Oops*

Glastonburied: Music with a bit of welly

As I write, it is pouring with rain and somewhere out to the west of the countryside that lies around me, there are hordes of people heaving tents and Hunter wellies as they make their pilgrimage to Glastonbury, the behemoth of summer music festivals. I thought it might amuse to recall the time I went myself, when I was Deputy Editor of Country Life. It was my first expedition (for such does it feel) to the festival, and so far, my last. It was, in the language of the time, epic, and I somehow feel that much of it must remain the same. Returning, deeply hungover, I hazily agreed to the Editor’s suggestion that I write about it for the magazine, resulting in what must be the only first-hand experience of the event for that august publication…


Mud, glorious mud. Puddles of it, rivers of it, great gushing lakes of it. You do not know mud until you have been Glastonburied. And some would say, you do not know Glastonbury until you have been muddied. But as this year’s festival opened several days after the promised heat wave had begun, I gaily entered the site with no thought of raindrops falling on my head.

Two hours later, I lay under the soaking, flimsy nylon canvas of my tent and fervently tried to remember my school science lessons. Was the presence of 150,000 mobile phones in a Somerset valley encouraging the lightening and did the Samsung by my pillow mean I was likely to be struck? Should I wear rubber boots inside my sleeping bag? For five hours, the thunder rolled, in judgement on my appalling basic knowledge. I listened out for the sound of an ark being built somewhere. The only thing I did not do was sleep.

The cockerel did not crow but the crowds cheered with the sun came out at last. Donning boots and plastic poncho, I scanned our campsite and, bar a few wet-looking stragglers, decided that we had all got off quite lightly. Then the news spread like dampened wildfire. All acts had been cancelled until further notice. There were tents that had been washed away in the night. People were packing their sodden belongings, ready to trudge off before even a single guitar string had been twanged. When the ))rain began an hour later, I suffered a severe sense-of-humour failure and bitterly remembered why I had refused to come to Glastonbury before.

But there is nothing like a bit of British weather to bring out stoicism. When the rain finally stopped for the last time at noon, strangers were cheerily greeting each other with ‘Happy Glastonbury!’ and the two-hour queues for wellies had started to form. After all, queues, warm beer and soggy picnics are what we do best.

All I had to do now was get my bearings. Given that the site was a mud-soaked 900 acres – a mile and a half across and eight miles around the perimeter – this was not so easily done. Any journey became an epic one as our band of friends tried not to lose members from one point to another. Someone would spot someone they knew; someone else would need the loo; someone else would try to buy socks (all sold out). Everyone moved in slow motion through the mud and on reaching their destination would be faced with the inevitable queue. Yet although our clothes, tents and food were dampened, our spirits were not.

In the end, I latched onto two adjacent fields as my base camps. The Lost Vagueness field with its black-tie only restaurant (you can hire the correct attire at the door), 1950s breakfast diner and a trailer park of caravans and beach huts to stay in; and the Tipi Field with large wigwams that even have small fires inside to send smoke signals from if the telephones fail. (Actually, no one managed that, but the thought was there.) Nearby was the Avalon Field with its organic cafes and, if you are in that kind of a mood, it is only a hop and skip from the Green Fields with their healers, and the Theatre and Circus Field with elaborately costumed performers walking round. And, of course, music, music everywhere. In crowds of 40,000 in the sunshine we all sang along to Van Morrison and his ‘Brown-Eyed Girl'; later I jumped up and down to the speedy folk violin tunes of Shooglenifty in a crowd of just a couple of hundred (no, I had not heard of them either).

Fenced in by a ring of steel, there is an other-worldly feel inside Glastonbury. No television, no radio, no newspapers, no advertising hoardings, no traffic, no animals. It would be trite to say it is like being in the war, but there is a certain Blitz mentality. I have never been in such a large crowd and felt so safe. After three days and four nights I had lost my phone, bank card and, in all probability, my marbles. I had been Glastonburied and never felt better.


First published in Country Life, July 7 2005.

Downton Abbey and cucumber sandwiches at the Cadogan Hotel, London

NPG x127699,Emilie Charlotte ('Lillie') Langtry (nÈe Le Breton),by Bassano

Here’s a picture of Lillie Langtry in a big hat. Rather splendid, isn’t it? She was a beautiful actress who ran her own production company and starred in She Stoops to Conquer and As You Like It but she was most famed for being the mistress of the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII, a man of gluttonous, lascivious tastes). She was, in short, a naughty Edwardian in a Victorian age. She also used to live at times in The Cadogan Hotel on London’s Sloane Street where throughout the summer on Monday afternoons – starting on July 1 – I will be giving talks and taking questions on Downton Abbey over cups of Earl Grey and cucumber sandwiches. It couldn’t be a more perfect setting, could it?

Tea at the Cadogan is done in partnership with Partridges and is a sumptuous affair with sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, pastries and the famous Chelsea Bun.

cadogan tea

For details on dates and how to buy tickets, please see here.

Afternoon tea at Woburn Abbey



Rather thrilled to announce that I am the guest speaker for afternoon tea in the elegant Sculpture Gallery at Woburn Abbey on July 17. There aren’t many places you can go on safari to gawp at the gorillas and then go on to hear the inside scoop on the Dowager Countess over cucumber sandwiches…

All the deets are here. Please do join us!



Matt Haig on Ten Reasons Not To Be A Writer

The Humans

Matt Haig currently has a novel out (‘The Humans’ – I haven’t read it but I’m going to) and he frequently shares funny Facebook posts, which for reasons you will see, I read as frequently as he puts them up, and has written some great blogs for BookTrust. This is the latest and… well, it made me laugh and if any of you are reading this blog for tips on being a writer, or wondering what a writer’s life is really like… This is probably the best revelation you’ll find.

Elsewhere, Matt has written about the wonder of being a writer – and it’s true that on the day that you write well, or someone else tells you that you write well, that it’s as if the sun shone everywhere and Smarties grew on trees. There’s no better feeling. But ecstasy is necessarily rare, and so are the writer’s high points.

Mind you, I’m still doing it. I know, I’m very lucky.

Read Matt Haig’s blog here: 10 Reasons Not To Be A Writer

I’m 40 next year…


40“I’m 40 next year…” It’s not that that’s so bad, it’s that I keep finding myself using this phrase as an excuse for all kinds of new thoughts that are now stampeding through my brain. It’s the only explanation that makes sense of the nonsense. But it’s not an explanation that goes very far. So I’ve written this, to try to reach a little further…

NOSTALGIA. This is the weirdest. It hits you like a child’s swing on the back of your head. One minute you’re looking at photos from your university days and saying how it only feels like last week and no-one looks any older even though it’s ten years ago; the next you’re staring at pictures of the naive children of yesteryear, wondering if you can even remember what it felt like to be that person, so bright-eyed and unknowing of what life was going to turn out like.

Furthermore, because everything has changed so fast in our lifetime, the nostalgia is extreme and early. Our grandparents hit their 70s before they started wallowing in memories about life before TV, fax machines and setting video recorders (I don’t think they ever worked out how to record something while they were out, the height of tech-decadence then – my parents only just about did it; and my grandfather always turned the fax machine off because he thought the red standby light would set fire to the house if it got too hot from being on. But he was born in 1912, so these kind of thought processes were entirely forgiveable). Now, I’m – just – the right side of 40, and I’m talking about the world when I wrote cheques, had no answerphone, had to stand by the phone without walking anywhere if I wanted to talk into it, only read books in paper form, had no internet and ate Wagon Wheels as if I was a relic from the Victorian era who had lived a bizarrely long life and witnessed a century of change. Because all that change in 100 years would be amazing but comprehensible. In just 20 years it’s bonkers. So that makes me feel even older.

WRINKLES. I mind these less than I thought I would. Possibly it’s because they’re not so bad yet. Possibly it’s because I have a rule never to smile at myself in the mirror. Still, I know that if I lose weight, my waist will look better but my neck won’t. I spent $83 on a face serum recently. That was a first and almost certainly not a last (it’s made a difference, it really has!).

HAIR. Ugh. Much dryer. I have to get serious about weekly conditioning masks. I have to have expensive haircuts and colour (home-dye kits, I have discovered, work for about a year and then suddenly go right off). I had a very pricey blow dry the other week, for a photoshoot, and my husband has hardly stopped raving about it. These kind of things you have to do – you can’t get away with cheap and cheerful fixes anymore. It’s not that you necessarily look terrible if you go cut-price, but if you want to look amazing, you have to pay.

CLOTHES. For the moment, we can carry on as we are more or less. I think it’s over 50 that the game changes (also, I need more time to save up). I feel as if I’m still wearing the sort of clothes I wore when I was 12. Mind you, I was kind of old for my age then, and now, while I’m not shopping in Top Shop for entire outfits, I probably go to a lot of the same places that teenagers go to – but that’s because mothers and daughters go to the same shops (Zara, Whistles, Jigsaw). I’d like to be exclusively buying expensively tailored dresses from Prada and Preen, or only wearing Louboutins or something but I don’t have the cash or borrowing power. What has changed is that I know my shape, I know what suits me, and I don’t deviate from it no matter how trendy or appealing the brightly printed tulip skirt may be. I don’t even need to try things on in a changing room to know whether it will work. This is a bonus.

ACCESSORIES. I think there’s something about turning 40 that makes you wear large silver or gold cuffs on your wrists from hereon in. Also, all bags must be made from ‘real’ fabric, whether cotton or leather. Plastic just will not do.

MURDER MYSTERIES. Couldn’t have been less interested in these last year. I would like to say this has changed because there are some great new murder mysteries about – I like to snuggle up on the sofa to watch Endeavour (‘Morse’ as a young man in the 1950s), or read Gillian Flynn (‘Gone Girl’) – but frankly, Poirot or Miss Marple would do just as well.

SUDOKU. No longer just a way to kill 20 minutes on the train but an exercise to ‘stave off dementia’.

PARENTS. You still have them, mostly (I still have my dad). You’re more inclined to forgive them for being idiotic but perhaps not yet inclined to indulge their whims. This more or less translates as: I’ll still borrow money off you but I won’t worry yet about paying it back. If they borrow money off you, on the other hand, you’ll charge interest.

DEBT. You still have this. You probably have just as much as you did ten years ago, only now you’re actually concentrating on paying it off. Even the mortgage deadline doesn’t seem that far away anymore. Overdrafts are less ‘free money’ and more ‘monthly charges’.

ACCOUNTANT. Yes, you even have one of these.

LAWYER. Not yet. Though you really should get round to writing your will soon.

CHILDREN. You may have at least one of these and if you have more they may not be yours because, like me, you married someone much older with kids already. Unlike our parents’ generation however, you hit 40 with toddlers in tow. When my dad turned 40, I went to his party and I was wearing stretch shiny jeans and an off-the-shoulder white top (told you I was old for 12); at midnight, I was sent to bed in our neighbours’ house and next day listened, enthralled, to tales of my godfather having a long conversation with our cat before being carried into the kitchen where coffee was poured into him. For my 40th, my son will be in bed at 7pm and will never learn of what went on while he slept.

IRONING. No longer something that other people do.

ME, MYSELF AND I. The really great thing about turning 40 is that you know you are you and that’s not going to change, and you’re OK with that. I have more confidence now walking into a roomful of strangers. A small measure of professional success has definitely helped with that. But also, you no longer worry about impressing everyone. You can’t make everyone love you or even like you – and that’s OK, too. My dad always said the three ages of man are: At 20 you are desperately trying to fit in with everyone else. At 30 you decide you don’t care what anyone else thinks. At 40, you realise no-one is thinking about you anyway.



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