When a childhood friend and I met Jan Morris just before a speaking engagement at a posh London club, Morris, then in her eighties, confessed she was tired. I used to edit her regularly and had never known the great Welsh writer, who was recently described in the Financial Times as possibly the best travelled Briton alive, to sneeze – indeed to be anything other than impishly exuberant. Minutes later, Morris mischievously joked from the stage that the club president’s effusive introduction was “straight off Wikipedia” and explained she had been doing the only yoga pose she knew all day
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