Postcards from the Edge

Shed a little bitty tear for Prince Andrew

Yes, he’s a chump – but he’s paid a higher price than most for his stupid behaviour, says Mary Kenny

Those of us who came to adulthood during the sexual revolution of the 1960s and ’70s may sometimes entertain a private reflex of sympathy for Prince Andrew. What if all the foolish escapades of our lives were brought into the public realm as relentlessly as his have been?

I can think of many a harmless septuagenarian who might break into a cold sweat at the thought of what mortification might follow if every folie de jeunesse was disclosed to the world.

Not only might there have been some laxity over the matter of ‘consent’ – now greatly emphasised, and indeed rightly so. But there might be pangs of conscience over the question of a young female’s age.

One pal recalled being, when he was in his twenties, in the full throes of canoodling with a pretty teenager he took to be around 17. He was appalled when she disclosed merrily that she was 12.

The age of consent has been a noticeably movable date. Many Latin countries, until recent times, placed it at 12 – probably under the supposition that chaperones would prevent any misbehaviour. France once had no age of consent at all – only latterly setting it at 15. Germany’s age of consent is 14. Britain’s is 16, but it hasn’t always been observed, as we know. Ireland, like New York, places it at 17.

Andrew has been a chump in choosing some of his friends, and he may well have had some unwise sexual relationships; something he denies. But, if so, he surely has paid a higher price than most: accused of crimes, condemned, stripped of his armed forces positions, unable to use his HRH title, stigmatised and even described as a threat to the monarchy and a possible shadow over his mother’s Platinum Jubilee celebrations.

Who would be in his shoes? I should think there are many thanking their lucky stars they are not.

The New Testament says that every man’s sins will be proclaimed from the rooftops on the last day. Some don’t even have to wait that long to undergo such an ordeal.

In my senior years, I’ve developed a refreshing habit of taking a siesta. Between 3pm and 4pm, I take to my bedchamber and rest. As Winston Churchill said, the siesta turns one day into two: on rising, you begin again with new energy.

And now a French neuroscientist, Brice Faraut, from the Sleep Centre at Hotel Dieu in Paris, has endorsed the value of the afternoon nap in a book, Saved by the Siesta. He claims that the siesta boosts immunity, reduces stress, may help us lose weight – not sure about that one – and can enhance night-time sleep. Between 20 and 40 minutes seems to be best.

A fine old Spanish practice, indeed, although I’m told the modern Spanish, now keen on keeping Brussels business time, no longer indulge in it quite so much.

There has been some discourse in recent times about the question of whether juries can be trusted to interpret the law correctly – following the toppling of a certain statue in Bristol.

Our learned friends have pointed out that juries can arrive at eccentric verdicts. An Irish judge once said to the accused, ‘You leave this court with no greater stain on your character than having been acquitted by a Limerick jury.’

The author of this anecdote, Maurice Healy, also warned smart-alec young advocates not to score points against the bench. A judge was inclined to let off a plaintiff for a trifling offence, saying, ‘You’ll be aware of the principle of De minimis non curat lex.’ To which the defending barrister replied knowingly, ‘Indeed, m’Lord, in the hills of Connemara where my client dwells, they speak of little else!’ Annoyed, his lordship doled out a custodial.

Actually, De minimis… – the law does not concern itself with trifles – was a sound principle, respected in the days before lawyers saw trifles as a chance for compensation claims.

Italy is always lovely. The Economist recently named it ‘the country of the year’ for its performance in Eurovision, football and post-pandemic economic recovery under the wise leadership of Mario Draghi. But there’s still a lamentable postal service.

It can take between six weeks and two months for a small package, sent from Kent, to arrive at a town near Rome and, even then, a Brexit surcharge of three euros may be applied on delivery.

In the days when I reported from Rome, I was advised to post outgoing mail from Vatican City, as the Holy See routed their postal services through the very efficient Swiss Post – still ranked as the world’s best postal service.

Postal performance is uneven throughout Europe, but it’s hard to escape the judgement that Protestant cultures generally run more reliable postal services than Catholic ones. This may be related to the frequency of holy days, still observed, even where life is largely secular.