I have loved Judy Garland all my life, for her tremendous heart, her wit, her glamour and her voice that portrays pure, unadulterated feeling.
In June 2006 I found myself in New York on a Judy Garland-flavoured mission, nearly eight months pregnant. I walked across town from my hotel to the Union Square Café in a cream lace peasant dress, bearing a big bouquet, balanced on my belly like a runaway shotgun bride.
I sat down, kicked off my high shoes and a waiter brought me a delectable-looking breadbasket. I had arranged to meet a distinguished collector of Judy’s things who’d emailed me, detecting a kindred spirit, after I’d sung her praises in my newspaper column.
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