A New Touch At half past eight one evening, as
1 walked along the main street of Llandudno, a bum inter- cepted me with spirituous smile and hand at the ready. 'I'm sorry to approach you in the street,' he said, 'hut you look pretty worn yourself.' This was a touch unusual enough, I thought, to merit the price of a cup of coffee. If I did look worn, it was with frustrated rage against my hotel. At five to eight I had turned up for dinner, to be told by a waiter that the kitchen staff had gone. 'A dish of ham will do, or a sandwich, or something.' He came back and said: 'Sorry, there isn't anything.' That very day this waiter had told a guest of mine at lunch that he couldn't have butter with his roll. 'They don't do butter with lunch,' he said. Our incredulity drew the remark : 'That's up to them, surely, sir.' Later we ordered coffee, and this was a cue he took with pleasure. 'They don't do coffee with lunch —only tea.' And if I looked worn, it was also because I knew that when I got back to the hotel after my late-night confabulations else- where the coin-box telephone outside the door would ring like the hammers of hell and go on ringing. It did.
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