The Guardian intervews Desmond Tutu:
“Are you going to wear that shirt?” asks Lynn Franklin, his literary agent and friend, with whom he is staying on Shelter Island, a holiday retreat in the Hamptons, New York State.
Tutu widens his eyes and opens his mouth in mock indignation. “What is wrong with this shirt?” he says, looking down at his dark blue T‑shirt.
“How about the one I ironed for you?” Franklin says.
“But this one has the logo for the World Cup,” says Tutu, pointing to the small emblem on his chest, before turning to me. “Tell your photographer not to go below the belt,” he says.
As I struggle to work out what he means by this, he gets up from the table to reveal a pair of little legs poking out of the bottom of a pair of long shorts. The cassockless figure that makes his way back through the kitchen has an air of Clark Kent about him — posing as a civilian but ready to use his powers for good. Less like a Nobel laureate than, well, your father, only on holiday.
It’s a fairly long article, and well worth the read.