the ghostess . by Betty James . and , added my teenage son , we shall also need a necking room . coming as it did upon previous requests for beer and cigarettes , this caused me violently to wish that I had never agreed to a party at all , in spite of the fact that my son had filled me with pride by undertaking a paper-round to pay for it . catching me in a busy moment , he had asked me if I would mind lending the sitting-room for a dance for his friends ; and I - my sanity clouded with visions of launching my boy handsomely into a reciprocal round of innocent entertainment - had foolhardily agreed to roll up the carpet one night and to go and do my typing elsewhere . owing to my son &apos;s easy-going disposition and preference for the exotic and the modern , it suddenly dawned upon me that I was about to meet a posse of embryo beatniks and , as the date of the party approached and the needs of the occasion became more and more horrifying , I began to doubt the wisdom of my agreeing . patently , the party was due to last all night . I telephoned a few of my more off-beat friends and was indulgently advised to give the kids what they wanted unless I wished my son to be socially ostracised - and to go out and leave them to it . this , however , I firmly refused to do . to come back to the home I had built with the sweat of my brow , typing my fingers down to the knuckles , and to find it full of drunken children and irate parents beating at the door of the necking room was more than I could stomach . I decided secretly to buy some ginger-ale and to creep around like Banquo - popping it into the beer . and so &amp;hellip; dawn having finally flung her most ominous stone , I went to work in aweful prescience and came back ready to do my son proud if it killed me . to my amazement , I found three children already there , working away like blacks . or - I should say - two of them were working like blacks and one of them ( my son ) was directing operations in a masterly fashion . the carpet had already been taken into the bathroom ; a charming boy was polishing the floor of the sitting room ; and an adorable little girl , who was introduced to me as Marblehead , was making sandwiches in the kitchen . apart from being touched to my very soul I was also sickened to my stomach to think that these innocent little darlings were about to turn into hideous , beer-swilling , chain-smoking , necking monsters in a very short time . at an age and time of day when , in my own youth , Christopher Robin was saying his prayers , the pink and healthy chip off my own block was probably about to sprout horns and a tail . our flat consists of a sitting room and two bedrooms . feeling it less of a condonation of the corybantic diableries about to be performed by the invited jeunesse dor&amp;eacute; , I had allotted my own bedroom for necking , prudently removing both the bed and the key , and taken both myself and my typewriter into my son &apos;s bedroom . at intervals between 6 and 7 p.m bunches of children arrived and , to my surprise , I was hauled out with each new invasion to be introduced by my son with what seemed to be a certain amount of inexplicable pride . inexplicable , because our guests looked at me doubtfully , possibly due to the fact that I had not dressed to meet anybody , since I had expected to be kept well out of sight . I was wrapped in my usual working costume of huge and somewhat grubby red flannel dressing-gown , I had omitted to don a face and - another normal concession to work - had twined curlers in my hair in order to deter my fingers from plunging wildly through my new hair-do in moments of creative stress . finally , to my dismay , three boys arrived bearing musical instruments and the festivities got under way . I had placed the beer in a strategic position on the hall chest outside my son &apos;s door so that I could listen for the moment when childish thirst overcame caution and the time arrived for the ginger ale to be wielded as a defensive weapon . for an hour nothing happened , nobody came near the beer , and I typed away with my other ear attuned to my bedroom door - which remained firmly closed . the noise from the sitting-room was deafening but tuneful . the boy prodigies might play loudly - but they were obviously able to play in tune . after another hour of this I heard footsteps approaching and dashed for my deterrents . whether in drink or deflowerment I was obviously about to have to defend to the death the innocence of some defenceless girl . all very well for my friends to tell me that my son was doomed to a lonely and celibate life if I interfered . that was before I had laid eyes on all those bright young things . all right , go on and tell me that they are nothing but disburgeoned delinquents - they did n&apos;t look like that to me . my door opened and a child of about fifteen put her head round it . she looked at me for a second , wide-eyed , and then asked , am I interrupting you ? I assured her that her visit was welcome and , encouraged , she added , are we making too much noise ? I thanked her for her thoughtfulness and explained that , since this was my son &apos;s party , I did not feel entitled to complain . she then asked me why I did n&apos;t come and join the party . this undoubted compliment took me by surprise . I thanked her very much and told her that I was quite happy and felt that my interference at this stage would not only be unsuitable , but would also make her unpopular with her contemporaries . after I had explained what I meant she seemed flattered and pleased but emphatically denied that parents were necessarily squares and thus geometrically unsuited to teenage coruscations . in fact , we had an enlightening conversation - on both our parts . Angus told me that you write , she stated , as if this fact whilst inarguably forever condemning me to the ranks of tepid Bohemianism - nevertheless earned for me the right of entry into any company , even theirs . after this she , and a couple of friends she had called to the rescue , helped me to a pair of leopard-skin tights and a black sweater from my depleted wardrobe and I was hustled into the sitting-room and taught the rock n&apos; roll , the cha-cha and other gay , if labyrinthine , mystiques . five of the elder boys ( including the instrumentalists , who deserved it ) drank four bottles of beer apiece ; the others fell with delighted cries on the ginger-ale . the sandwiches were devoured , and one small girl fell asleep in the necking room . at 9.30 the lights were turned out and dancing continued in the dark . I returned to my work and the little girl in the necking room slept undisturbed . nine of the children left at 10.45 obviously with appreciable respect for the instructions of stern , but just parents . three boys ( one the brother of the sleeping child ) stayed overnight - after phoning for permission - to help restore order in the morning . amongst my so-called grown-up acquaintances where shall I ever find gathered together such a charming , friendly , unspoilt and generous cross-section of humanity as graced our home on the night of my son &apos;s party ? where are the profligate little terrors I hear about ? not necessarily ( as some would have it ) amongst the members of co-educational schools . these young people seem to have acquired a healthier slant on life than have some of their more conventional contemporaries and , if they are a sample of youth today , the psychiatrists &apos; couches of the future should creak much less frequently as they get ready to bear the burden of yet another pathological despair . asked at a Coroner &apos;s inquest to prove his identity and to agree that he was a medical practitioner , a doctor replied : yes , sir . I am a medical practitioner - in fact , one of the best in the country . ribbed afterwards by a colleague for immodesty and unprofessional conduct , the M.D replied : alas ! what else could I say ? after all , I was on oath . castle wanted . by John Hammond . being a top person , it would appear , is not so much a question of balance as a state of mind &amp;hellip; . the British character is not quite dead . that is what I am able , and delighted , to report after devoting twelve months to reading the personal column of the Times - that daily barometer of the hopes , the fears , and the dreams of the nation &apos;s top people . even in the 1960s , it seems , there are still among us independent spirits who refuse to allow their horizons to be limited by the 8.15 and the goggle-box ; who will go anywhere and do anything , fight a duel , hire a parachutist ( either sex ) for a special assignment , and are in the market for anything , from a rocking horse , traditional , to a chastity belt , metal overlaid with velvet . reduced to their baser elements the motives that drive anyone to invest in a few lines of Times type are not so greatly different from those of advertisers in lesser journals : the desire to acquire something you have not got yourself , including money ; the complementary urge to sell someone else something you have yourself but would sooner be without . what distinguishes a Times personal column ad is its careless , well-bred panache . for example , lots of people in this sad , overcrowded little world of ours suffer from a housing problem but how different from the pathetic appeal in the local newsagent &apos;s window is I am urgently seeking an enormous country house anywhere in England &amp;hellip; , or castle wanted as permanent home by young couple &amp;hellip; . there is , however , a hint of well-bred panic in agonized family ( 5 ) aesthetic and practical ambitions , urgently require Georgian ( or similar ) house &amp;hellip; derelict castle , unmanageable mansion or anything &amp;hellip; ; and perhaps an appeal to the esprit de corps which , one imagines , exists among our top people , in my husband and I , Nanny and the children will be homeless next January unless you sell or let us that six bedroomed Georgian country house on the Herts-Essex borders that we have sought sorrowfully these last two years &amp;hellip; . nor should one assume that money is no object with every advertiser . being a top person , it would appear , is not so much a question of bank balance as a state of mind , and sprinkled among the demands for ancestral homes are to be found requests like the one from impoverished , very junior executive in need of living space . naturally though , it has to be within walking distance of Mayfair , but , apart from that , an attic with only a shower and a gas ring will suffice . practitioners of the arts are to be found at both ends of the financial scale , from the quiet-seeking writer wishing to rent a wing of a too-large castle or mansion in the Scottish Highlands ( a library , music room , or private chapel would be much appreciated ) to the very poor novelist in search of shelter for himself and some furniture in London , charitable offers only , please . the possession of a four-footed friend is a problem to all seekers after a roof and puts the experienced advertiser on his mettle . the bravura of accommodation for amiable bloodhound , grand piano and architect owner sought ; old vicarage ? disused wing ? help ! has already been celebrated by a leading article in the journal in which it appeared ; but equally moving , in a more restrained key , is old English sheepdog pup and Canadian gentleman desire to be paying guests at Farm or country House &amp;hellip; . however , even if the worst happens , the top person &apos;s dogs - provided they are few and small - may be boarded out en famille , in another advertiser &apos;s country residence . and their felines , you will be relieved to know , may find accommodation suited to their station at the Cat-a-Guest House , with expert care ; cuisine a speciality . 