One man's meat
AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS
SATURDAY: Plashing through the mud- puddled, buttercup-golden grass at the bottom of our little garden near Reading in the middle of a hot afternoon, I thought how very fortunate we are to have such a place where we can get away from it all at the weekends. I said as much over tea to my dear wife, Nancy. She said 'Yes, I suppose we are, but as to getting away from it all, I am not so sure.' I am at a loss to understand her moods sometimes. After tea we held a small cocktail party in the open air for a few friends from town who have offered to 'lend a hand' with my new column in the Sunday Times. We had in- vited Norman Mailer, the Johnsons, the Tynan, Charles and Carrie Pooter, Ber- nard Levin, Philip Oakes, Karl and Jonathan Miller, Daisy Mutlar, Murray Posh, and Philip Hope-Wallace, and all seemed set for a pleasant evening.
Paul and Marigold Johnson arrived just after six. Sarah, our au pair, officiated with Pimm's, and we were soon cracking jokes fourteen to the dozen. Marigold Johnson was very impressed with the length of my new beard, and said, 'I say, what a corking Beaver!' I replied, raising my glass, 'It must be all this beaverage (beverage)!' We laughed and laughed. Paul Johnson said I must certainly mention the joke in my column in the Sunday Times, and I agreed. He said, 'If you do not, I shall certainly mention it in my column in the New States- man'. They then told us that Cosmo, their son, had invented an amusing riddle. Un- fortunately I cannot remember it. We were still laughing, however, when Charles and Carrie Pooter arrived, accompanied by their
son Lupin, who is the manager of a 'pop group' called The Blue Geranium and Co. Ltd., though for the life of me I cannot think why.
When he saw me he said, 'Hello Hairy- chops, still writing that drivel in the Sun- day Times, then?' We all had a good chuckle over this, but the Pooters seemed very put out, and this cast something of a wet blanket over the rest of the evening. I was also disappointed by the fact that none of our other guests arrived. Charles Pooter cheered up a bit about half past eleven, and said how much he enjoyed my column in the Sunday Times. He said, 'I think it is very witty.' As they were leaving, Lupin Pooter handed me a visiting card. He said, 'That is my agent. Mention any remarks of mine you use to him, there's a good chap, and he'll let you have a bill.' I yield to no one in my veneration for youth, but I thought this was 'going it a bit', I must say.
SUNDAY: Terrible headache. Woken by telephone ringing at eight-thirty a.m. Dee Wells very angry about my column in the Sunday Times. Says we had a shockingly indiscreet conversation at Norman St John- Stevas's Chablis and Camembert Party for the cast of Knickers. Why no mention? William Hickey at least noticed she was there. Must keep a notebook handy. Came downstairs to find Cummings and Cowing sniffing at jugs of Pimm's left over from last night. Cummings said 'Hello! You look pretty ropey. Party a flop, was it? Lose all your friends, you will, the way you're going on.' Gowing said, 'I suppose we should count ourselves lucky we're not grand enough to be immortalised.' I replied with dignity 'If you think your activities are of any interest whatsoever to Posterity, or to anyone else for that matter, then I would suggest you communicate with Mr Evans, in London, the Editor of the Sunday Times.'
This seemed to put them in their place. Cummings looked at the floor with a very morbid expression on his face for a few moments, and Gowing puffed out his cheeks, raised his eyebrows and consulted his watch. When Cummings spoke to me, I thought it was with a little more respect. He said 'Care for a stroll down by the river before lunch?' I declined politely, reflecting as I climbed the stairs once more that I had completed my Nature Notes for this week. What a relief!
MONDAY: I have always loved the theatre, and I am particularly partial to the 'nude happenings' which are currently all the rage. Our friend Burwin Fosselton, who is a founder member of the Holloway '69 Group, an amateur company of great in- ventiveness and originality in my view, asked us to the first and, as it turned out, last night of an entertainment entitled Screw. I stood up in my seat half way through and shouted 'Tits'. Charles Pooter was so carried away that he waved his hat and said 'Bum' several times, quite loudly. We met for a half pint of beer afterwards in the club bar and all agreed that it had been a most liberating and pleasant even- ing. Saw Vanessa Redgrave.
TUESDAY : Went to Luni's of Cork Street, my hatter. Blushed to the roots of my hair when Luni snatched off my Kangol Beret- Cap and showed the label to one of his assistants before dropping it into the stove. He is making me a new straw helmet. At the first fitting it entirely covered my face,
but he assures me they are being worn like that this year. I hope he is right.
WEDNESDAY: A riddle from my youngest at breakfast: Question: What goes up a chimney up, but won't come down a chimney down? Answer: An Egg! I had not heard that one before.
THURSDAY: Worked at home. Found a piece of wool in my navel that gave me the 'thread' for my next essay. Epigrams clatter from the typewriter like machine-gun bullets. Must buy new desk.
FRIDAY: An encouraging reaction to my column: 'A work of towering, overpower- ing genius' (Tolstoy, reported by Philip Oakes). I look forward to seeing Lupin Pooter's face when I tell him that, I must say.
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