I got to know him [Harold Macmillan] really quite well, because he was a great friend of my mother. They'd been together in Algiers in 1944, and she'd always backed him as a future Prime Minister. And she always called him 'my horse', 'He's my horse'. And he was therefore known as The Horse. And he used to come to lunch with her quite often. My mother by this time had left France, having given up all hope of me being posted there, and moved into another house in Little Venice, only about a couple of hundred yards away from my own, around the corner, in Warwick Avenue. And she settled in there, and she used to give a series of dinner parties. And Uncle Harold, again, as he was sometimes called, was a regular and was wonderful company. I mean, he shuffled in, bleary-eyed, you know, and you would think, well, good God, this is going to be terrible, he's past it. And then he'd suddenly sort of wake up and start talking, and he was a wonderful talker, reminiscing about the different oratorical styles of Lloyd George and Winston Churchill. He was very, very, very good company. And so, anyway, that was... I sort of settled down in Blomfield Road to an ordinary life.