The most extraordinary literary figure of the period between the wars to have achieved literary repute, which then lasted into the rest of the century, was undoubtedly Noël Coward. Unlike most of the writers I have written about thus far, he came from a relatively poor background, and his propulsion towards writing came from a career on the stage, launched when he was not yet in his teens.

After an apprenticeship of less than a decade, Coward starred in 1920 in the first of his plays to be produced, when he was just 20. That was not a great success, but he went on to better things and in 1925 wrote Hay Fever, one of the greatest of modern comedies. The plot, if one can call it that, is very simple, dealing with four members of the artistic, aptly named, Bliss family who each invite a guest for the weekend, and are horrified that the others have been so thoughtless as to not inform them of the visitations.

The guests are bemused by their charming but totally self-centred hosts, and seek solace with the wrong partner, which leads to high comedy – the dumb sportsman brought along by the actress mother is charmed by her comparatively earnest daughter, while the actress cannot resist captivating the diplomat her daughter had invited; meanwhile the husband, a writer, overwhelms the older society woman his son had asked, while the writer's own innocent young guest pairs off with the son.