12 SEPTEMBER 1963, Page 9


Two or three weeks ago I sat slothful on a balcony, my eyes moving between the rosy mist on the Matterhorn and the latest instalment of the Great English Robbery Serial. My reflections on England's growing success in the sensations market were interrupted by a telephone call to tell me sadly that my house in an inner London suburb had just been burgled for the fifth time in six years. I received the news calmly (for who ir. London who leaves his house unattended these days can seriously hope to have it uninvaded?) and took such action as I could. This included writing to the local police station, requesting confirmation that they had been informed, and asking for news, if they had any of the investi- . , . gation. I didn't really expect a reply, and I wasn't disappointed.