Pillow Talk

IT always seems so incredibly unjust that a biographer should reveal the intricate details of one's romantic correspondence. This literary to-ing and fro-ing of intimate love letters, each of which is brutally laid bare like the desiccated body of a stone age man in a brightly-lit museum, is a form of posthumous rape. Just pray that it never happens to the former Mr. and Mrs. Gates, particularly as most bookshops do not provide free buckets.