albescent reflections of the sun playing on the river would flit eerily over my face
I went along to the Tate, I need hardly say, on the Saturday before, decked out like a walking stationery department, also with a pocket edition of the poet's work and the well-thumbed Thames and Hudson.
On our way to the door I had a brainwave.
I halted suddenly as we stepped on to the pavement. I was frightfully sorry - it had almost slipped my mind - but I'd promised Cecilia Nottingham that I would ride with her in Hyde Park that afternoon. Did she mind?
I was in the Notting Hill Gate Smith's at the time, standing with my back to the front entrance and scratching my scalp -not in puzzlement, but because it itched. Badly shaken by my fell-off-a-lorry slip the other day, I had just put down a book on Cockney slang ('Cheers, Norm, where's the trouble …
It was clear from the tone that Jenny's accusation was an emotional, not a circumstantial, one, probably the crest of an imprecatory tidal wave
