Below the Parapet [antikvár]

^SHE'S DONE IT!' 'He had the air of a man who'd just been told his wife had had twins.' NORMAN TEBBIT THE GREEN AUDI SEDAN sciit white plumcs billowing into the cold morning air as it turned out of the garage mews behind Flood Street, Chelsea. Behind the wheel was Denis Thatcher, a grey-haired businessman wearing spectacles, a well-tailored suit, one of his favourite blue and silver striped ties and polished black brogues. It was barely 7 a.m. but Flood Street had already been cleared of horse-dung after the Household Cavalry's morning exercise. By the time the mounted regiment had reached the end of the street the keener gardeners were outside wielding shovels and scooping up the free fertilizer while it was still steaming. I was rarely awake to see my father leave for work but I know him to be a creature of habit. He likes his breakfast grapefruit meticulously prepared so that each segment can be lifted easily with a spoon. His marmalade has to have chunky bits of orange and lemon peel and there must be visible cherries in the cherry jam. He took the same route to work each day, turning left into the King's Road, then joining the M4 heading west towards Heathrow and beyond to Swindon, Wiltshire, and the headquarters of the Burmah Oil Company, where he was divisional director of planning and control. Denis was approaching his sixtieth birthday and had spent the best part of thirty-five years running companies and keeping shareholders happy, but in less than a hundred days he was due to retire. This abrupt change in lifestyle - which so many men dread - held no fears for him. He was admirably fit, still active and regarded leaving Burmah as a career move rather than a full stop.