This is no fling, says Di's new flame, Dodi Fayed. But how can he know? How can any of us? There are ways to spot the Big One, says Hester Lacey

Sir: No great surprise that Elizabeth Taylor is not dyeing her hair after an operation to remove a brain tumour (Tabloid; "Grey matter: how Liz grew up", 31 July).

Elizabeth Taylor once starred in a film about Heathrow VIPs' lounge. The casting was perfect, for her dramatic arrivals and departures, husbands in tow, belong to the movie of her own life.

Less business than labour of love, Elizabeth Taylor's Powys nursery is a treasure trove of unusual plants, writes Anna Pavord

Widely regarded as the greatest hairdresser in the history of the movies, Sydney Guilaroff created the hairstyles for many of the most important stars, spending most of his career at the most glamorous of studios, MGM.

Kilts went from risque to passe without ever being cool, despite Gaultier's efforts. James Sherwood reports

I've just finished a script. It's called Red Cars. I don't know whether it will be my next movie or not. It's about the Formula One Championship of 1961, which was won by Phil Hill, the first American to win the championship. He won it for Ferrari when his team-mate Wolfgang von Tripps was killed at Monza. It's really about creative dynasties, about fathers and sons, and it's about car racing. Enzo Ferrari is a major figure in the script. So it's quite a different thing from my movie Crash. It would be interesting to play them on a double bill. They're almost like two sides of a coin.

Colette Harris tries an exotic new tonic: Amla 49

Untoppable, unstoppable, uncloneable, unforgettable, Elizabeth Taylor is 65 today. By Emma Forrest

Doctors expect Elizabeth Taylor to fully recover after an operation that removed a 2-inch tumour from her brain.

Kissing and the movies go together like Bogey and Bacall. Or at least they used to, before sex got into the pictures. So for Valentine's Day, why not celebrate the lost art of screen romance?

Annus Horribilis, Annus Mirabilis: Never mind Baywatch, never mind the tattooed, soon-to-be-ex-husband. Given the right script, Pamela Anderson could still be a Monroe for our age. By Emma Forrest

There are two great dramas on at the moment in which a young son is used as a pawn in a deadly game played out by parents whose marriage has turned into an orgy of neurotic scab-picking. In one, the son exists in all but fact and, at the close, is cathartically killed off by his creators. This play is called Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

One would rather be, ooh, back in the middle of Finals than be a guest at Beverley's gruesome little "do" in Abigail's Party. But one would rather be in intensive care than go anywhere near George and Martha's after-hours drinking session in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. At this sozzled, Strindbergian bitch-fest, it's venom on the rocks and guts out on the table. The obligatory games include Get the Guest, Hump the Hostess and playing puzzled pawn in a marital war conducted as vindictive vaudeville. Emigration would be preferable to participation, but, as Howard Davies's wonderful Almeida revival confirms, to be a fly on the wall at this event is one of the most exhilarating and cathartic experiences the post-war theatre has to offer.