Rupert Murdoch has a habit of dropping things. Not just wives and stories from the first edition of the Times, but also, I now learn, vol-au-vents.
At the nonagenarian’s annual summer party at the Serpentine Gallery in London, I am told he left a trail of the puff pastries in his wake. As soon as the serving staff placed one in his hand, it fell to the ground.
Touchingly, Michael Gove – inevitably, a guest – picked up every one. Some Gove uncomplainingly put in his pocket. Gove and Murdoch may both have been unlucky in love, but they always have each other.
