Counting My Chickens...: And Other Home Thoughts
Deborah Cavendish
Language: English
Pages: 111
ISBN: 2:00274644
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Edited by Sophia Topley and Susan Hill. Introduction by Tom Stoppard.
A unique window on an extraordinary life lived with tremendous zest, discrimination, and intelligence.
The Duchess of Devonshire is the youngest of the Mitford siblings, the famous brood that includes the writers Nancy and Jessica. Like them, she has lived an unusually full and remarkable life, and like them she has an inimitable expressive gift. In Counting My Chickens, she has gathered extracts from her diaries and other writings to create a multifaceted portrait of her life at Chatsworth, the home of the Dukes of Devonshire, that is pithy, hilarious, wise, and always richly rewarding.
Under the Duchess's inspired supervision, Chatsworth has become one of England's most frequently visited great houses, welcoming over 400,000 visitors a year. The Duchess reveals what it takes to keep such an establishment alive and prospering, tells of transporting a goat by train from the Scottish island of Mull to London, discusses having her portrait painted by Lucian Freud, and provides rich reminisces of growing up a Mitford--along with telling anecdotes about friends from Evelyn Waugh to John F. Kennedy. From Tom Stoppard's adoring Introduction to the author's meditation on the beauty of Elvis Presley's voice, COUNTING MY CHICKENS offers continuous surprise and delight.
Building Societies’ Association. It seemed to be indicated that Andrew should ask his aunt to the annual dinner as guest of honour. She asked, ‘Shall I wear my best dress or the other one?’ The thought of the other one made us wonder. Harold was an intellectual and a politician all right, no doubt about that; but the mistake so often made of putting people into categories left him there, and did not allow for his interest in the family publishing business and many different aspects of life,
he was sitting at dinner between my son and his friend, both in their first year at Eton. There was the usual political crisis on, and the PM was preoccupied with his own thoughts, while the boys anxiously cast round for a suitable subject of conversation. After a long silence, I heard Sto5 say, ‘Uncle Harold, Old Moore’s Almanack says you’ll fall in October.’ To his eternal credit, after a suitable pause, he answered, ‘Yes, I should think that’s about right.’ It is strange to see your family
petals of the formal doubles are arranged, like flowers in a Victorian bouquet. Andrew’s favourites are Jupiter, a single japonica of intense red, and Mrs D. W. Davies, blush pink with waxy flowers six inches across. The aptly named rose-form doubles could easily be mistaken for the striped Rosa mundi—till you remember the time of year. The earliest to flower is C. sasanqua. It is a welcome sight in November and has the advantage of being slightly scented. A succession of camellias are the only
Erdigg was a natural for the series. When Mr and Mrs Michael Strachan went to see the house newly opened to the public, they found the Squire struggling with a clockwork spit from which hung a stuffed pheasant. He asked where they were from. ‘Scotland,’ they said. ‘So you know David Baird?’ They did. On the strength of this unlikely exchange, the Strachans suggested taking him out for dinner. A series of disasters with boarded-up restaurants followed, ending with the hospitable Squire asking them
Mabel and her helper in the pantry, Annie the head housemaid and two young girls under her, Cook and a kitchen maid, an odd man, Mr Dyer, and my father and mother. In this company, our lives were secure and regular as clockwork. We had parents who were always there, and an adored Nanny, who came when Diana was three months old and stayed for forty years. ‘The barn,’ converted by my father and separate from the main house, was a haven for Nancy, Pam, Tom, and Diana. They had the run of my