I've never been one for developing random crushes on people I don't know. The very idea of desiring a person based entirely on their public persona seems faintly ludicrous. However, having secretly adored Gerard Depardieu with a semblance of romanticism for more years than not, I was sadly forced to cancel my affections for the man following his petty slur on the wonderful Juliette Binoche.
Thus, I have lived happily without a pedestaled notable for a year or more. Until now. Andrew Graham-Dixon has crashed into my consciousness with exactly the fervour and big-nosed pomposity that always gets my sap rising. Oh! Andrew! (the name, regrettably, appears no more alluring typed than screamed aloud). But, I can overlook such trifles for here is a man who transcends his pale moniker one hundredfold.
It would matter not if he spoke to me of Rembrandt or septic tanks. This titan of eminent good taste commands every shred of my attention whenever he opens his mouth. Perhaps it's only my natural affinity for cultured, educated and freshly-pressed-white-shirted males coming into play, but A G-D is not simply a dry scholar of history.
Oh, no! He thrums with rude health - although, he did seem a little puffed out striding up Mt. Etna on last night's "Sicily Unpacked". No less, within a few minutes of arriving (almost) at the top, the lustrous badger-barnet was slicked back to its usual perfect arrangement and normality restored.
I've started having daydreams about him. I particularly enjoy the one where we're seated at a tiny restaurant table in a secret Parisian back street, our knees knocking together under the tablecloth, all senses assailed by the whirl of life going on around.
A G-D is looking at me, one beautiful bushy eyebrow cocked skywards, an elbow on the table and the top two buttons of his shirt undone in his trademark unthinkingly casual and dashingly sexy manner. In my (increasingly vivid) world, he smells of Tuscan lemons, mixed with a hint of black pepper and dusty velvet curtains and he's leaning in to speak, so he can be heard over the stroppy wailing of the chef emanating from the kitchen behind him.
I'd be wearing something appropriately devastating. The candlelight plumbing the depths of my décolletage and one languid, dark-varnished finger playing the rim of my wine glass.
"You know," he'd say, knotting his noble brow into considered lines, "I was just thinking your face reminds me very much of van Dongen's "Le Coquelicot". You have the same eyes and small, red mouth".
Then, after dinner, we'd walk back to his town house and he'd read Baudelaire to me whilst I massaged his shoulders and wondered how to get his trousers off without appearing too unladylike (oh, come on, I'm a red-blooded gal, it can't be all undiluted culture).
So, here's to many, happy years of A G-D enjoyment. I am not a fickle woman, so I hope he will not turn Depardieu and disappoint me with a curve ball of ungentlemanly behaviour.
Thus, I have lived happily without a pedestaled notable for a year or more. Until now. Andrew Graham-Dixon has crashed into my consciousness with exactly the fervour and big-nosed pomposity that always gets my sap rising. Oh! Andrew! (the name, regrettably, appears no more alluring typed than screamed aloud). But, I can overlook such trifles for here is a man who transcends his pale moniker one hundredfold.
It would matter not if he spoke to me of Rembrandt or septic tanks. This titan of eminent good taste commands every shred of my attention whenever he opens his mouth. Perhaps it's only my natural affinity for cultured, educated and freshly-pressed-white-shirted males coming into play, but A G-D is not simply a dry scholar of history.
Oh, no! He thrums with rude health - although, he did seem a little puffed out striding up Mt. Etna on last night's "Sicily Unpacked". No less, within a few minutes of arriving (almost) at the top, the lustrous badger-barnet was slicked back to its usual perfect arrangement and normality restored.
I've started having daydreams about him. I particularly enjoy the one where we're seated at a tiny restaurant table in a secret Parisian back street, our knees knocking together under the tablecloth, all senses assailed by the whirl of life going on around.
A G-D is looking at me, one beautiful bushy eyebrow cocked skywards, an elbow on the table and the top two buttons of his shirt undone in his trademark unthinkingly casual and dashingly sexy manner. In my (increasingly vivid) world, he smells of Tuscan lemons, mixed with a hint of black pepper and dusty velvet curtains and he's leaning in to speak, so he can be heard over the stroppy wailing of the chef emanating from the kitchen behind him.
I'd be wearing something appropriately devastating. The candlelight plumbing the depths of my décolletage and one languid, dark-varnished finger playing the rim of my wine glass.
"You know," he'd say, knotting his noble brow into considered lines, "I was just thinking your face reminds me very much of van Dongen's "Le Coquelicot". You have the same eyes and small, red mouth".
Then, after dinner, we'd walk back to his town house and he'd read Baudelaire to me whilst I massaged his shoulders and wondered how to get his trousers off without appearing too unladylike (oh, come on, I'm a red-blooded gal, it can't be all undiluted culture).
So, here's to many, happy years of A G-D enjoyment. I am not a fickle woman, so I hope he will not turn Depardieu and disappoint me with a curve ball of ungentlemanly behaviour.