It is hardly a surprise that Sir David Frost should die in transit, for he was always going somewhere, both literally and metaphorically. Sir David had a heart attack on the Queen Elizabeth. Concorde would have been more likely if he was still criss-crossing the Atlantic with the regularity that other people go backwards and forwards to the fridge. I remember a conversation with Sir David (it was a mistake ever to drop the Sir) when his three boys were small. He was planning to take the family to Scotland and was thrilled that they had got a super saver ticket (skillful planning by Lady Carina who had deployed cereal packet coupons (Frosties?) to good effect). I loved that the man with the reputation for supersonic flamboyance was embarking on such a cozy trip–and was so delighted to have kept hundreds of pounds from British Rail.
Not that Sir David was mean. Far from it. I enjoyed several good lunches with him and was once invited to his famous summer garden party–although I was out of the country and couldn’t go. Lots of those writing about him this week have mentioned the cigars and the love of good food, good wine and good times, but few have mentioned his preacher or politician’s trick of looking any companion straight in the eye. He really did make you feel as though you were the only person in the room for the moment when he first grasped your hand. His focus was both flattering and alarming. No wonder Nixon cracked. Certainly I always left a Frost fiesta feeling exhilarated and important–until I realized that I had caved and agreed to pay much more for the continuing rights to Through the Keyhole than I had originally intended.
I am sure the Father, Son and Holy Ghost have already received requests to grant an interview to the great man. It pleases me to think of Sir David arriving at the Pearly Gates closely followed by a sonic boom.