They wrote it this week: Warhol’s cocky friend, and Trump’s mood slumps
Extracts from diaries and letters written between September 23 and September 29
[To her sister Jessica Treuhaft. Nancy Mitford was bedridden and dying an agonising death from spinal cancer] Then, very natural, this, one’s friends come & say “anything, anything on earth I can do & I will.” You say some quite small thing – you know me, I hate being a bother, & it happens to be the only thing on earth which, for a lengthily explained reason, they can’t do. It simply never fails & nowadays I always say “nothing whatever you are too kind” upon which a look of great relief crosses their faces. Now, everybody thinks they have cured me with faith & so on. One sends water from Lourdes (by post!!) another a little tin medal. Tom Driberg had a mass said for me, v. exp:, & was worried lest God shouldn’t twig who it was for as I was called Pansy Dodd [Nancy’s married name was Rodd]. Great relief that G turned out to be so clever. I tell everybody “It’s YOU who have cured me you YOU YOU”. In fact it is two little green pills far away without a city wall...