There are other examples of such petty nicotine power play in Craig Brown’s roistering quasi-biography of the chain-smoking princess. Then she contentedly lit her own cigarette. Sean Connery had given it to her, she told him. “Isn’t this fun?” she remarked, showing him a gold item with “007” engraved on it. She took another cigarette from her bag, swiftly followed by her own lighter. A while later, he found himself sitting on a sofa with the princess. Obligingly, he turned to a passing guest, borrowed a lighter and indulged her fastidiousness. But she stopped him: no, she said, she couldn’t abide book matches. He dug out some matches and prepared to fire up the princess. She was, however, famously royal, so when she reached into her bag, extracted a cigarette and pointed it towards Strand, he knew his (republican) duty. The princess was not tall – indeed, she was christened “the Royal Dwarf” in 1951 – was sharp of speech and not jam-packed with noblesse oblige. Strand was extremely tall, very deliberate of speech and gait, well mannered and craggily handsome – the overall effect was of Clint Eastwood’s bookish, better-looking older brother. This happened at a New York cocktail party, and must have been an incongruous encounter. T he only friend I have had who met Princess Margaret was the US poet Mark Strand.
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