(Celia Walden’s article appeared 8/26.)

'They must have moved this,” frowns Barbra Streisand, sliding a tiny carved ivory box an inch to the right across the coffee table. “They have – they’ve moved it. It should be here.”

Batting a strand of hair out of her eyes, she stretches her wide, expressive mouth into a wonderfully familiar smile. “Things like that bother me. I wish they didn’t but they do. Take the new album cover: down to the last minute I’m there, trying to get the exact peach colour I want but it keeps coming out beige – and I’m not a beige person.”

Few would query that, and Streisand accepts that a desire to impose authority on the world around her has always been there. “Because I feel so impotent,” she shrugs. “Like I’m living in a world that’s going nuts.”


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