There is general excitement among the legions of fans of A Dance to the Music of Time: next week a plaque to Anthony Powell will be placed on 1 Chester Gate, the house where he started to write the many-volumed work of genius. I have a particular interest in attending, not only because Powell was married to my father’s sister Violet, but also because I took advantage of the relationship to lodge for several years in Chester Gate. This was when my parents chose to live maddeningly in Hampstead Garden Suburb and at the age of about 17 I was beginning to go to parties. Go to them? But how to return? That was the problem. No taxi would go so far. I batted my eyes in vain. Fortunately, Violet was one of the kindest and most tolerant people I have ever encountered. She welcomed me, listened at breakfast to my (enhanced) tale of what had taken place the night before, before asking me to clear the table: ‘Uncle Tony is writing a novel.’ I was happy to help for a few weeks, but after about a month I suggested that the novel might be soon coming to an end. ‘People like short novels these days,’ I contributed helpfully. When I watch the plaque being unveiled and consider the wondrous 12 volumes of the celebrated work, I shall be grateful like the thousands of Powell fans that my cheeky literary advice was ignored.

The great Edna O’Brien suggested that August was a wicked month, with husbands and wives taking advantage of the holiday season; but in our family it was the birthday month, beginning (in order of birth) with my mother on 30 August, then myself on 27 August, my brother Thomas under a year later on 14 August. The crucial 13 days in which Thomas and I were the same age was a time of humiliation for me, whereas he took advantage of it to march boldly about the parks in Oxford accosting strangers: ‘Ask her how old she is… ask me how old I am.’ Then satisfactory wonder was expressed.

Recently Thomas and I spent 13 days being 90 together before I soared ahead. Having eluded him and reached 91, I am left contemplating the strange nature of the people with whom I actually share a birthday if not a year. They are led by Mother Teresa, and followed by Lyndon Johnson. I cannot claim the canny wisdom which they seem to have in common, let alone the sanctity of Teresa. Perhaps it is better to concentrate on Don Bradman, my cricket-fanatic husband’s hero. Here I can at least establish a connection in the shape of the passionate admiration of Harold Pinter. Then there is St Monica, mother of St Augustine, whose feast is celebrated on 27 August, the day before that of her brilliant scintillating philosopher son. As a Catholic convert in my teens, I have always been interested in the nature of saints, including my own useful patron St Anthony, who, for a fiver in the box, finds your missing cat with enthusiasm. It is worth noting that he certainly feels enthusiasm for the money, since any dereliction of payment may be accompanied by dark consequences such as a further spree by the wandering cat.

Come to think of it, I do have a very tiny connection to Lyndon Johnson. At the independence of Jamaica, my first husband Hugh Fraser, as a minister in the government, was asked to represent the Queen. It was July 1963 and Lyndon Johnson, as vice-president, represented the US government. Unlike Hugh and his modest entourage, Johnson was guarded in the most obvious fashion night and day. At the time President Kennedy was still in office for a few short months with the terrible ending to his story as yet unknown. I cringe when I think how we mocked the precautions taken to keep Johnson safe. At any rate, they inspired me to make a bet with Andrew Devonshire, who was present as a junior minister and had a taste for wagers. I bet that I would manage to dance with Johnson. Andrew accepted the bet. Cunningly, I had noted a Balliol contemporary of Hugh’s among his officials. I was therefore able to secure the promise of a dance – so long as I didn’t try to speak to Johnson. All went well. On a secret nod from my co-conspirator I was invited to dance, feeling like a puppet in the strong man’s arms. Only one thing was too much for me: silence. After a bit I gasped: ‘I think Mrs Lady Bird Johnson looks wonderful tonight.’ The vice-president looked at me with disgust. He had obviously been promised humble silence. ‘Yah do, do yah?’ he replied, dropping his arms and striding off the floor. At least I should record that Andrew Devonshire, a great gentleman, paid up.