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I think it was Donald Mainstock, the great amateur squash player, who pointed out how lovely I was. Until that time, I think it was safe to say that I’d never really been aware of my own timeless brand of loveliness. But his words smote me, because, of course, you see, I am lovely, in a fluffy, moist kind of a way. I walk, let’s be splendid about this, in a lightly-scented cloud of gorgeousness that isn’t a far shot from being quite simply terrific. The secret to smooth, almost shiny loveliness, of the order which we are discussing in this simple, frank, creamy-soft way doesn’t reside in oils, unduants, balms, ointments, astringments, creams, milks, moisturizers, linaments, lubricants, embracants or bolsoms, to be simply divine for just one noble moment; it resides, and I mean this in a pink, slightly special way, in one’s attitude of mind. To be gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely, all you have to do is to believe that one is gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely. And I believe it of myself, tremulously at first and then with mounting heat and passion because, stopping off for a second to be super again, I’m so often told it. That’s the secret really.