The last time I visited Angela Carter, a few weeks before she died, she had insisted on dressing for tea, in spite of being in considerable pain. She sat bright-eyed and erect, head cocked like a parrots, lips satirically pursed, and got down to the serious teatime business of giving and receiving the latest dirt: sharp, foulmouthed, passionate.

That is what she was like: spikily outspoken -- once, after Id come to the end of a relationship of which she had not approved, she telephoned me to say, "Well. Youre going to be seeing a lot more of me from now on" -- and at the same time courteous enough to overcome mortal suffering for the gentility of a formal afternoon tea.

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