On the afternoon of 20 January 2021, shortly after the swearing in of the country’s first female Muslim president, Huma Abedin, the Clintons left the White House for the last time, in a van filled with furniture, paintings and bathroom fittings. At their home in Chappaqua, New York, a now very reflective Bill Clinton wrote the critically acclaimed memoir, The Little Blue Dress.

‘The building smelled like everybody who ever lived there, and as my feet touched the threadbare carpeting of the ancient stair, I grasped the cool wooden handrail, worn smooth by generations of sweating hands, and as I did I caught the soursweet smell of cooking that seemed to be coming from the second floor, the landing dimly lighted by a dirt encrusted bare bulb that cast my moving shadow on the wall beside me, and together we stood in front of the door the cooking smell was coming from, a cooking smell that meant woman, and a woman was what I needed right now more than food, though I would probably be hungry afterwards.’ So ended the first sentence of Bill Clinton’s memoir, and I can’t wait to read the rest of it, though the rest seems to be written, fittingly enough, in rhymed couplets.

I’ve been accused of lies and rapes
I tell you, friends, it’s sour grapes
From women I  have kissed one time
But kissing women’s not a crime
I liked them short and liked them tall
But more than that I can’t recall
Though some were slim and some were fat
But women all and that was that
Not all were pretty, that’s a fact
And being with them took some tact
But I’ve enjoyed my life so far
And that reminds me when a car
Pulled up as I was on a walk
She stopped and said we have to talk
We spent the weekend at her place
But darned If I recall her face
The White House cooled me off a bit
But just to keep in shape I’d sit
At my big desk and I confess
I wish to God I’d burnt that dress

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