Patrick Procktor
SON Nicky and I breakfast together, an E for B thrice a week, on other days tea and toast. Then he leaves for school at eight, and I work through till mid-afternoon. A bull-shot about three, then I sit down at our Chinese mother-of-pearl round dining- table with a week-old crust of rye bread and a piece of the mature Gouda in the black skin, washed down with a glass of last night's left-over Marquis de Caceres rioja, under the gaze of an oval portrait of a 17th-century unknown Frog. (He must be Frog, because he is wearing the blue and gold Order of St Louis, which was in the personal gift of the King.) A too-rare treat on television will be one of the great Bette Davis oldies . . . then I can blub and blub till Nick comes home, my heart refreshed.
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