“I’ll tell you what, shall I go outside?” Julie Andrews asks. We are talking by phone, but, alas, the reception inside her home on Long Island is, she says, “always terrible”.
Torturous minutes pass in which I can hear only fragments of her conversation, and if anyone knows of a sweeter agony than being barely able to hear Andrews’ still lovely, melodious voice, I don’t want to know what it is.
Eventually, I have to tell her this phone conversation isn’t working. “I can stand out in my garden, although it is a bit nippy …” Andrews suggests.
Please do not go outside, I nearly shout down the line, suddenly envisioning Andrews developing pneumonia because of me. “Honestly, it is no trouble at all!