When I moved to London from Dublin, Katherine Whitehorn represented what I saw as the glitzy, literary London scene. She was witty, audacious and down to earth in a clever sort of way. There were other women journalists who were also great to read but she was top dog and unopposed queen of bedsitter land.
I remember a story she told about herself when leaving a rather staid women’s magazine. Her f inal contribution to the handicraft section of the paper – which she just managed to get past the internal censor – was a suggestion to the readers: ” Why not knit yourself a little Dutch Cap this winter.”
It was terrible to learn that she had advanced Alzheimers. The loss is ours.