I wrote my earliest piece for The Sunday Times about being a young wife.
I was so flattered that someone wanted me to write a book, I said I would. It was published in 1969.
But really I’m not terribly interested in what I eat.
I live at home and, if I want to start work at 11 o’clock, I can.
I’d never have written the big books in London.
I’ve got a book coming out soon so I just must get some weight off.
But I always seem to finish a book and then think, oh God, I’ve got to pay a tax bill, so I’d better write a novel, so I tend not to stop and learn word processing.
It must be a terrible pressure to have to go to the office.
There is nothing more attractive than a man who is not a New Man.
I think it bespeaks a generous nature, a man who can cook.
I would really like to spend more time with the family. Every time I go abroad I miss them all dreadfully.
My own parents loved each other very much.
And I would really like to be a grandmother, but only when Felix or Emily meet the right person and are ready.
I have a theory that the secret of marital happiness is simple: drink in different pubs to your other half.
If you look across the valley, you can see exactly what I mean: about four beautiful houses, and you think something is happening in each of them. It’s like a mural.