Dear Philippa,

 

Recently I had to attend a routine meeting of the Publications Management Board at the Royal College of Psychiatrists, followed by another meeting, also at the College, which is surrounded by so much secrecy that I cannot tell you anything about it. Except to say that it was remarkable for its complete absence of malice; it is unlikely that a similar meeting of, say, surgeons would be so collegiate. I’m not sure why this is so – perhaps the presence of so many female psychiatrists accounts for it. At lunch I found myself beside a psychiatrist of Nigerian origin who works in Birmingham and it turned out that he is a close friend of Jacob Ajayi, an author and friend when I lived in Lagos, with whom I have lost touch. It was a very agreeable lunch and I was delighted to discover that Jacob is still with us. He had the misfortune, when Vice-Chancellor of Lagos University, to displease the then military junta and get fired.

 

Anyway, in view of these meetings, and a wedding in Greenwich the following Saturday (the daughter of another author, who raised eyebrows by wearing full formal outfit teamed with scruffy trainers) we had a weekend in London, staying at the Groucho Club in Soho. After an evening of ferocious drinking on Friday I slept poorly and woke at about 4.30 Saturday morning and after attempting to settle I decided to dress and go out in search of newspapers, taking with me a fat book in case I failed. But I did not fail, and on the way back a young man called out to me across Old Compton Street. I couldn’t make out what he said – my hearing is not perfect – so I approached him and heard him say “Are you looking for…….?”, but I didn’t catch it all. I thought he thought I looked lost and was offering help. When I reached him and explained my faulty hearing, he with a desperate look screamed “ARE YOU LOOKING FOR SOME SEX?” I was a bit taken aback, I can tell you - this was ten to six in the morning, after all – and the only response that came to mind was: “No, I’m going to get my breakfast and read the Daily Telegraph. But thank you for asking.” Never can a hustling rent boy have been so politely turned down. What was he thinking? An OAP loaded down with reading matter and plainly hungover at six in the morning, I cannot have seemed a particularly promising prospect, much less an appetising one. But I’m seldom about in Soho at such an hour, so what do I know – perhaps it is thick with OAPs seeking consolation in the arms of a catamite after a disappointing night out. Was he selling or buying, do you suppose?

 

At the wedding I made a bit of faux pas; I admired some woman’s minimalist hat, smoothie that I am, saying how much I liked her tantaliser. I should have said fascinater, as you will know. A tantaliser I believe is used in the process of encouraging the stallion to the mare. It is the term, so I understand, for a young, fit mare that is paraded about to excite the interest of the stallion and then whipped away at the right moment and the target mare is smartly substituted. The woman I was attempting to flatter didn’t look the type to be familiar with stud farm practices, and I think I got away with it.

 

I should have mentioned that the Friday College meeting was chaired by the Editor of the journal, recently returned from China. He has a shock of unruly white hair and a professorial manner which he amusingly enlivens with jokes and a bit of clowning when chairing meetings. He told us that his Chinese hosts laughed a great deal when he was not clowning, which he couldn’t understand. I remembered, but didn’t mention it, reading somewhere that the Chinese import and much enjoy old Mr Pastry films. I thought, but did not say, that his hosts may have been under the mistaken impression that Mr Pastry had come to stay.

 

The weekend thankfully included a brief visit to Helen’s where we enjoyed good food and wine and watched our dogs knocking seven bells out of each other. 

 

Best wishes

Howard