I confess I was more than a little in love with Twiggy when I was a schoolboy in the Sixties. Although she was about four years older than me she did not seem as intimidatingly mature and grown up as the other models and film stars that my generation of boys were busily lusting after. In fact she didn’t look that different to some of us when we were made-up to appear on stage in school plays. It was quite possible to imagine yourself on a date with her, despite her extraordinary and unusual beauty – not to mention her enormous global fame and iconic status.
So, when a publisher rang in the mid nineties and asked if I would come to the office for lunch with Twiggy as she was looking for a ghostwriter, it set all my nostalgia glands tingling.
The lunch was delightful. Twiggy was delightful, and even though I didn’t get the job, (as sometimes happens, I was told they had decided a woman would be more suitable), I felt I had an anecdote that might at least interest, and possibly even impress, my children.
“I had lunch with Twiggy last week,” I announced casually over Sunday lunch.
“Twiggy?” my eldest daughter exclaimed, looking just as stunned as I thought appropriate for such a momentous event. “That’s amazing. We’re doing her at school ... in history.”