The memorial service for the Observer’s beloved columnist Katharine Whitehorn, organised by her sons Bernard and Jake, and held at St James’s church, Piccadilly in London last Monday, was completely marvellous and I feel certain that she would have loved every moment of it (Katharine died in January 2021, at the age of 92). Not only was the Revd Dr Mariam Ifode-Blease’s sermon reflexively feminist; her leopard-print spectacles spoke joyfully to Katharine’s first job at the paper (she joined the Observer in 1960) when, as its new fashion editor, she decided that it was her solemn duty to get the British woman out of her “limp cardigans” once and for all.
When Bernard asked me to speak at the service, I responded by bursting into tears – I owe her such a lot, not least because from the moment I first read her as a little girl, I never wanted to be anything other than a journalist – and on the day, I was as nervous as hell. But in the end, of course, she did all the work for me. Quote Katharine once and everyone will laugh; quote her half-a-dozen times and you can spend the rest of the afternoon basking in her reflected glory.
