The past few weeks have produced a capering procession of well-known men caught with their trousers down, while their wives are photographed with swollen eyes hidden behind fashionable shades.
Too many publishers imagine that they can farm out translations to a nephew or niece who is studying a foreign language, but the pathetic results of this kind of procedure are all too common.
Everyone complained, above all, about the food: French dishes "stewed in grease" and breakfasts consisting of nothing more "than a thimbleful of coffee or chocolate and a morsel of bread."
I climbed off my man and sat chatting to him until his parents arrived for a visit, oblivious to the fact that I had just been shagging their “poorly son.”