Two indelible images were ingrained in my mid-teen mind. The first was seeing, one blustery June day in 1953, the just-crowned Queen: youthfully pearlescent, sensitive, smiling through rain from that great ornate carriage as she passed, quite close, beside the windows of my father’s club in St James’s.And, not very long after, having hared across those hard-won playing fields of Eton, over lanes and ditches, to the Gaumont in Slough to see, in celluloid colour, the world-heralded Marilyn Monroe in There’s No Business Like Show Business.While an afternoon audience of housewives swooned at the gyrations of her co-star Johnnie Ray, I was enraptured by the sashaying form, the lyre-shaped arms, the wide luscious mouth — the trembling, exquisite being that was Marilyn.
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