At 82, Ruth Rendell rises at 6am, exercises daily and writes a crime novel a year. But despite her Swedish background, she’s no fan of Nordic noir
At 82, she looks about 59 and is still writing a crime novel a year, as well as walking two miles to the House of Lords every afternoon. Her cat is nowhere to be seen. Archie, the illicit offspring of a prize-winning Persian and a predatory ginger tom, has declined to be interviewed. “He’s beautiful and nice but he doesn’t want to meet you,” she says. “I’m sorry about that. I feel it’s a bit rude.” No offence taken. I’m not sure I could submit to the cat’s psychometric examination as well as the scrutiny of his mistress.
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