007 — THE SPY WHO LIKED ME

WHEN I was growing up in Edinburgh, so was Sean Connery. We never bumped into each other, but for a while he was stepping out, one at a time, with my cousins Ella and Maisie Corbett.

When he went to London in the chorus line of South Pacific, we had lodgings in the same dingy area and got to know each other. Later, when his career was looking up and he lived in a mews flat, he’d invite me over for pasta.

Then he became famous as James Bond but, unlike more shallow types, he didn’t drop his old pals. In fact, stardom was something he liked to shrug off. He was happiest living as a nomad, hiring a small car (nothing flashy) and travelling so light that he bought a new shirt every day.

Like me, he’s a great golfing enthusiast, and we often greeted each other at amateur-celebrity matches. He didn’t come to see me, though, and neither did the likes of Bing Crosby, Jack Lemmon or George C. Scott — they came to learn from the pros. It’s amazing that no matter how much in demand an actor is, he’s never too busy to play nine holes with golfing greats like Arnold Palmer.