Jones , it need hardly be said , stopped that off at once . 
The days have gone when foreigners copied the British . 
With Jones in power , the British are encouraged to copy the foreigner . 
The foreign-made muck , which British quality goods were supposed to be pushing out of the market , is now being pushed out of the market by British-made muck . 
Jones does not believe in quality . 
He believes in low prices . 
He is not interested in the old slogan , " British is Best " . 
He is interested in the new slogan , " Jones is Best " , and the fact that Jones is British will , he believes , reflect prestige upon Britain . 
He is not interested in goods that last a lifetime , a tradition started by snobbish manufacturers who wanted their children and their children 's children to reap the benefit of their impeccable trading probity . 
Jones wishes to reap the benefit himself , in his own lifetime , and let his brats and brats ' brats fend for themselves . 
To this end , he is interested in goods that do not last a lifetime , but which require large replacement orders to be made every five years . 
Foreign contacts 
When Jones goes abroad , he does not go as a member of any group , delegation or coach-party . 
He goes alone . 
Jones goes alone , secure in the knowledge that wherever he goes , his arrival will not go unannounced or his stay unnoticed . 
At the hotel , in a capital that he has never visited in his life before , he will meet an old American friend whom he last met in Paris , God , it must be years ago , and soon that old American friend is introducing him to the local Joneses right , left and centre . 
At Harry 's Bar , in any foreign city , it turns out that the particular Harry of the joint used to be the barman of a little club in London that Jones used to use in the days when Joneses still used little clubs , and this same Harry gives him the lowdown on where the native Joneses are currently eating and drinking . 
At the American Express , which is a very Jones place in which to cash your travellers ' cheques , Jones just happens to run into an old army pal who has now got this amusing job of showing the yobbos around the night-clubs . 
The old army pal takes Jones to a number of night-clubs , most of them specialising in one sexual eccentricity or another , to which the yobbos would not be admitted , whether with or without paper hats . 
From the fact that Jones never fails to meet contacts such as these on his foreign travels , it is obvious that there must be an International Jones Organisation ( Interjones ) , whose agents disguise themselves as barmen , old army pals and roving Americans . 
However Interjones may be organised , it is certainly a powerful and influential body . 
Thanks to Interjones , it is now possible for Jones to travel throughout the world without losing any of his status , modifying his standard of living , or , out of sheer loneliness , being compelled to sit in the reading-room of the British Embassy doing the crossword in the air-mail edition of The Times . 
Thanks to Interjones , it is possible to cross the Equator either way without leaving air-conditioning behind . 
Chains of new hotels , indistinguishable from one another , have sprung up in the capitals of the world , and — without actually being called the Jones-Plaza or the Jones-Carlton — they are Jones all right , because look at the showers , look at the swimming-pool , look at the arcade of shops , look at the express elevators , look at the six or seven restaurants , one of them on the roof from which it is possible to get a panoramic view of London , Beirut , Madrid , Bonn , New Delhi or Copenhagen , as the case may be . 
Thanks to Interjones , Jones in any foreign city can hire a car , use a credit card , send a transfer-charge cable , or get a ringside seat for the student riot in the course of which the British Council building is burned to the ground . 
Thanks to Interjones , Jones can now travel from airport to airport , from hotel to hotel , from Harry 's Bar to Harry 's Bar , without ever setting foot outside the Jones country . 
Jones ideas are now so firmly established abroad that as primitive states develop , it is not the Old Country on which they model themselves , but the New Jones . 
In Africa , Jones hotels spring up even as the Prime Minister elect is being let out of prison . 
In the Middle East , oil royalties are turned into Jones amenities , such as ice , big cars , and night-clubs that would not be out of place on Miami Beach . 
In Brazil , an entirely new capital has been hacked out of the jungle as a living monument to Jones and all he stands for . 
Foreign visitors 
Interjones naturally works on a reciprocal basis , and when Monsieur Jones , Herr Jones , Signor Jones , Jones Pasha or Don Jones arrive at the Westbury , whom should they meet in the lobby but Jones , only this minute back in London himself . 
In this context it is worth noting that , although Interjones maintains branches in all countries , some nations do not appear to be signatories to the Interjones Treaty . 
There are nations which are exclusively Robinson nations , such as the Dutch , the Bulgarians , and the Burmese . 
The French are essentially a Jones nation , but like to be governed by Robinsons . 
The Germans are essentially a Robinson nation , but like to be governed by Joneses . 
The Italians are Jones when abroad , but Robinson when at home . 
The Swedes are the Jones-nation among the Scandinavians , and the Norwegians are the Robinsons . 
England , which bred the first Joneses , is Jones . 
Wales , from which the Joneses took their name , is Robinson . 
Southern Ireland is Jones . 
Northern Ireland is Robinson . 
Scotland is Jones to come south from , but Robinson to remain in . 
The Isle of Wight is a compound of Robinsons . 
Extremely small countries , such as Luxembourg , Liechtenstein , San Marino , etc. , are Robinson to be born in , but Jones to be a foreign resident of . 
( This applies particularly to the Channel Islands . ) 
The Russians are ideologically Robinson , but throw up Jones-deviates from time to time . 
All Iron Curtain countries , except Czechoslovakia , are statutorily Robinson . 
Iceland is not only Robinson to be born in , Robinson to live in , Robinson even to have correspondence with , it is also the only country outside the tourist belt that it is Robinson , and not Jones , to visit . 
Spain is unique , inasmuch as there it is Jones to be a monarchist , the reason being is that Jones is always on the side of the future . 
Portugal is entirely Robinson . 
Switzerland is Robinson to visit , but Jones to bank with . 
Egypt is Robinson , but is studying to be Jones . 
India fought to become Jones , but did not succeed . 
South Africa is fighting to remain Robinson . 
Australia revels in being Robinson . 
By a trick of light , Canada is Jones when seen from London , but Robinson when seen from the United States . 
Within the United States , it is Robinson to appear like a Jones . 
In Latin America , Jones and Robinson live in a constant state of revolt against each other ; it is always possible to know when Jones is revolting against Robinson , because then we hear about trams being overturned , and Jones detests trams . 
China , with superhuman effort and against all odds , remains Robinson . 
Japan , despite all those paper flowers that blossom in a jam-jar is becoming Jones . 
The North Pole is Jones . 
The South Pole is Robinson . 
CHAPTER FIVE TO JONES ACCORDING TO HIS NEEDS 
THE political pundits , the literary weeklies , the more telegenic Members of Parliament , the leader-writers and the public-opinion polls — to say nothing of various summer schools , conferences , congresses and other centres of political group-therapy — have devoted some attention to the question of who will rule Britain in the future . 
Jones may occasionally join in these discussions if the beer is good . 
But for him there is no question to be argued . 
Jones will rule Britain in the future . 
Whether Labour or Conservative , the next Government — or it may be the next but one — will be a Government of Joneses . 
What are the facts behind this political reshuffle ? 
There is only one fact , and that is that Jones feels unable to lend his allegiance to any one political party . 
Tory Jones likes the idea of free enterprise , but ca n't stand the idea of class privilege . 
Labour Jones likes the idea of equality , but ca n't stand the idea of regimentation . 
The Labour Party , as we know , is in decline . 
What we may not know is that the Tory Party is also in decline . 
The Jones Party is slowly emerging , composed of the Jones-elements from both these declining bodies . 
Already Jones has established his position in both camps . 
There are Labour Joneses and there are Tory Joneses in power today . 
( There are no Liberal or Communist Joneses , since Jones is not interested in causes but in politics . ) 
The Labour Joneses write for Tory papers . 
The Tory Joneses write for Socialist papers . 
The two Joneses , Labour and Tory , appear on the same television programmes and unite against trade union Robinsons from the Left Wing and backwoods Robinsons from the Right Wing . 
Between them , Labour Jones and Tory Jones are forging a new policy . 
And that policy will be the Jones Policy for Britain . 
Why you should vote for Jones 
At present , Robinson has a clear majority in the House of Commons . 
Robinson M.P.s go about on buses , hold dreary clinics in their constituencies , ask dreary questions about peat , and go on dreary fact-finding missions to dreary countries on either side of the Iron Curtain . 
What , in contrast to this , has Jones got to offer ? 
Why will Jones make a better Member of Parliament than Robinson ? 
( a ) Jones does not waste time on dreary routine . 
Everything he touches he makes exciting , and he is able to create enthusiasm , which helps the electorate no end . 
( b ) Jones is in touch . 
Where other politicians have to consult polls , statistics , graphs , fortune-tellers , to find out what people think , Jones trusts his instinct and is always right . 
( c ) Jones lives in the present . 
He will cheerfully agree that his party has a shocking record , for his party 's past history is of not the slightest interest to him . 
Neither does he make sweeping promises for the vague future . 
If Jones says he is going to do something , he means tomorrow . 
( d ) Jones has the gift of the gab . 
( e ) Jones is a good mixer . 
It is only on the Jones level that Tories and Socialists can mix as equals , and consequently he is able to avoid all those unprofitable stalemates that politicians are always running into . 
( f ) Jones is very good on television . 
( g ) Jones is always positive . 
He would rather be a supporter than an opposer , and he will always endorse good ideas , whichever side they come from . 
( h ) Jones knows all about images , and in fact invented them . 
( i ) Jones is always ready to re-think . 
( j ) Jones is very good at inventing slogans . 
And the slogan of the Jones Party might well be : WHAT 'S GOOD FOR JONES IS GOOD FOR BRITAIN The Future Jones Offers You 
The Joneses , Socialist and Tory alike , believe in an egalitarian society ( within the limits of the Jones Practical Democracy , outlined on pp. 83-87 ) , where the best brains ( i.e. Jones ) rise to the top , but where there is wealth and opportunity for all . 
Jones has no wish for Britain to be a major power , so long as she can hold first place in the markets of the world . 
He is all for co-existence , peace in our lifetime , and anything that might come under the heading of progress . 
He is against outmoded traditions , gunboat-diplomacy , and monopolies . 
He would take the tax off coloured refrigerators . 
Let us examine in detail some of the Jones Policies for Britain : 1 . 
THE JONES FISCAL POLICY 
There will be no significant fall in income tax , since Jones does not , in fact , object to paying income tax . 
He had long sensed injustice in the distinctions drawn between ordinary wage-earners and those self-employed . 
By the time his monthly salary arrived , the Inland Revenue had already taken their share , and there were precious few reductions in tax save for wives , children , life-insurances or any of the other normal encumbrances which Cecil had so far avoided . 
He read the film star 's sorry story and frowned at the provisions of Schedule D taxation which not only allowed her to claim relief on the most unlikely purchases , but also postponed demanding the tax until her financial year was ended , audited and agreed by the Inspector . 
The process could , and often did take several years . 
At one point the astute Miss Cheesecake had claimed tax relief on the purchase of several mink coats which , it seemed , were necessary to further her career . 
Alternatively , it was reported , she tearfully claimed that the warm coats were heating appliances and therefore susceptible to a depreciation tax allowance as plant and machinery . 
The Commissioners of Inland Revenue wisely refrained from asking how she paid for the mink coats but demanded a receipt instead . 
Between all the interested parties , the final agreement had been delayed long enough for Miss Cheesecake to spend all the money which by rights should have been reserved for her tax . 
Discounting one chinchilla jacket , a Rolls-Royce and a Sussex manor house , all three of which were in her husband 's name , she now declared herself bankrupt . 
The train drew into another station and Cecil , with a further six stops to go , was left almost alone in the coach . 
He fumed as he recollected the long correspondence he had had with the Inland Revenue in an effort to obtain tax relief for a jacket used solely in the office . 
" If the jacket is a condition of your employment , " the Inspector had written , "it may qualify for relief . " 
Cecil snorted aloud . 
So long as he did his job satisfactorily , Frask and Kitsell Ltd could hardly have cared less if he wore even a bikini in the office . 
In fact , the previous summer , his girl comptometer operator had done so . 
It led to no end of a muddle with the figures . 
Then there was that long wrangle with the Inland Revenue over travelling expenses . 
The journey from Bank to Norbiton took a large slice out of Cecil 's surplus spending power . 
He had tried to obtain tax relief for that too , only to be told that journeys from home to work did not qualify for relief . 
So Cecil had pursued the matter on the grounds that he took his work home and , for a week or more , he took a bundle of record-cards each night in the hope that a passing Inspector might see it . 
The final word , as always , came from the Inland Revenue who fell back once more upon the " condition of employment " clause . 
Again Cecil glared at Miss Cheesecake who was not only allowed travelling expenses but was also allowed to buy herself a Rolls-Royce " on the Tax " . 
No wonder she could not pay up ; one half of her money seemed to have gone into purchases designed to defray the tax incurred by the other half which was , in any case , earmarked for normal living expenses such as publicity parties , beauty treatment and frequent foreign holidays to the right places . 
The train drew to a halt . 
Cecil 's sole companion , the parcel-laden housewife , staggered to the door and prepared to alight . 
" Madam ! " he called after her . 
" You 've left your briefcase . " 
His public duty performed , he pointed at the seat opposite without making any effort to hand it to her . 
The housewife turned a baleful eye and gazed at him over a large hat-box which , to judge from the Bond Street label , had taken a large bite out of her husband 's taxable income . 
" It 's not mine . 
I was n't sitting there . " 
She blinked disdainfully at him and stepped out . 
It was a new briefcase , and as the train jogged along the shiny clasp twinkled invitingly at Cecil . 
He wondered what it contained . 
Probably the remains of someone 's lunch or a few secret files . 
He smiled at his own joke . 
Of course , it might be holding wads of five pound notes earned on the black market , if there was still such a thing as a black market . 
It might be a shady cash deal though , specially designed to avoid passing through the books . 
Perhaps the case belonged to one of those fellows who were organising those girls who operated from cars . 
There could be a lot of money in the call-girl racket , and not many expenses either , just a telephone , some wear and tear on the girls and a change of address from time to time . 
The briefcase must be crammed with money . 
Cecil realised that four minutes of solitary running time separated him from the next stop , his home station and , after an unnecessary glance around , he stepped across the car and tried to open the briefcase . 
It was locked . 
Eager fingers felt bulky contents and when he shook the case there was a rustling thud of wads of paper . 
" Cor ! " he muttered aloud , " there 's five thousand at least . " 
He felt in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key ring . 
In succession he tried his own briefcase key , a suitcase key and a device designed to lock typewriters . 
Cecil searched in his pockets once more and came up with two paper-clips . 
After a few seconds of twisting , he roughly thrust a bent wire loop into the lock and waggled it around vigorously . 
There was a click and the briefcase opened . 
Cecil thrust an eager hand inside , his fingers groping after wads of five pound notes . 
They closed on a single bundle and , fumbling with nervous excitement , he pulled it out . 
His eye rested on a wad of stiff white paper printed on one side . 
" Old fashioned fivers ! " he muttered again , and tried to recall if they were still legal tender . 
Surely the Govr. and Compa. of the Bank of England would never break their promise to pay on rude demand , let alone on polite request . 
Cecil frowned in disappointment as he focussed upon the printing to find no Govr. , no Compa. , in fact no five pound notes at all . 
He was holding a paper booklet , the top sheet of which bore , in large Baskerville type , the words 
METROPOLITAN MONOTECHNIC INSTITUTE 
ADVANCED ACCOUNTANCY 
COURSE NO. 3 . 
He ruffled the sheets irritably and glowered at his own breach of social morality . 
There are few people who would not jump at an opportunity to rationalise away the theft of a briefcase full of illicit fivers , but to sell one 's soul for a handful of lecture notes presented quite a different kettle of metaphysics . 
The train slowed down for Norbiton station and Cecil hastily repacked the briefcase . 
There was a hiss of opening doors and Cecil carried his conscience out upon the platform . 
He climbed the stairs , eager to unload the guilt-symbol upon the ticket-collector and then to emerge carrying his shame unseen , but burning , into the night . 
He reached the barrier and fumbled for his contract before thrusting the briefcase at the ticket-collector with the firm intention of playing the dutiful citizen retrieving lost property . 
Before he could open his mouth , the collector stretched out a hand . 
" Watch your step there , sir ! 
Your briefcase is hanging open . 
You 'll have someone shoving their hot little hands inside . 
Here , I 'll do it . " 
The collector pressed the twinkling catch home with a click . 
Cecil , irretrievably laden with both briefcase and conscience , stumbled away into the darkness . 
2 
" HELLO , CECIL . 
HAD a busy day ? " 
His mother came into the hall as he opened the front door . 
He nodded irritably and , turning his back to her , contrived to slide the briefcase into hiding between the do-it-yourself cupboard and the polished brass fourteen-pounder shell-case which served respectively as coat cupboard and umbrella stand . 
" You 're later than usual , are n't you ? " 
His mother tidied her grey hair in the hall-mirror they had once obtained as a free gift in exchange for the labels from half a hundredweight of Trunk and Greppes Tannin-free Tea . 
Cecil shook his head and hung up his raincoat and hat inside the cupboard . 
" Are n't you going to say hello ? " 
His mother stood and faced him with a smile . 
" I 've got some lamb chops for you this evening . " 
"Hello , mother . " 
He kissed her cheek perfunctorily . 
" Lamb chops , indeed . 
Any letters come ? " 
She grimaced . 
" Only the electric bill . 
It 's up again . 
We 'll have to go easy on the immersion heater next quarter . " 
Cecil gritted his teeth and glowered at the inequity of Miss Cheesecake well-nigh bathing in tax-free champagne whilst he had to go easy on the immersion heater . 
" What is it , Cecil ? 
Do n't you feel well ? " his mother asked solicitously . 
" You do look tired . 
Go and get yourself a drink . " 
"Do n't fuss , mother ! 
I 'm quite well and no more tired than usual , and we finished the gin last week , you know that . " 
Cecil stepped towards the dining room . 
" I 'm sure you must be tired , " his mother insisted . 
" You 're very irritable , anyway . " 
"I 'm NOT tired and I 'm NOT irritable . " 
"Very well then . " 
His mother nodded with understanding . 
" You 're not tired . 
Nobody 's tired . 
Now just you run along upstairs and wash your hands whilst I get dinner ready . " 
Cecil wriggled irritably under the misplaced management of a mother who had failed to realise that a son who is nearly bald is no longer a baby . 
He started to climb the stairs , stamping with unnecessary vigour upon the treads . 
" And do n't wipe the dirt off on the towel like you did yesterday . 
Your Auntie Edie 's coming in for a cup of tea later and you know how she has a good look round everywhere . " 
There was a tinkle and a thud from beside the coat cupboard . 
Cecil 's mother turned around in time to see the briefcase collapse against the brass umbrella stand . 
" Well now ! " 
She hurried towards it and picked it up . 
" What have we here ? 
A new briefcase ! 
So THAT 'S what it 's all about . " 
Cecil halted in mid-step near the top of the stairs and clenched his fists . 
" So that 's what WHAT 'S all about ? " he hissed without turning round . 
She pointed to the briefcase . 
" So that 's why you are so irritable . 
You thought that I 'd think you 'd been extravagant . " 
"But I 'm NOT irritable ! " 
He rushed down the stairs and , snatching the case , ran back upstairs with it . 
" And I 've NOT been extravagant . " 
"Naughty ! " she called after him . 
" Mother knows her boy better than he does himself . " 
She smiled at herself in the mirror and reflected how mothers always know their dear impulsive boys better than anyone — especially better than not so dear , not so impulsive daughters-in-law . 
Her smile faded at the thought of female competition , but brightened again in the belief that her son was not cut out for that sort of nonsense . 
Widowed mothers often expect their only sons to be very lone rangers . 
Dinner was taken as usual before the television . 
Cecil 's mother had arranged the receiver to face two armchairs by the fire . 
They sat uncomfortably hunched in mutual inclination , and ate at arm 's length from a common occasional table placed opposite their adjacent knees . 
In the days when he had still a liking for cigarettes , Cecil had well-nigh proved the statistical relationship between them and lung cancer in an effort to obtain the table free by smoking his way into a collection of six hundred gift tokens . 
The flush of achievement had long passed and as Cecil sat , eyes on the television screen , not even the napkin tucked into his neck could prevent lamb-chop gravy from carelessly bespattering the table he had risked so much to obtain . 
Mother and son gazed in fascination at the story , unfolding before their eyes , of corn cultivation in Capokoland . 
" What time 's the Olde Tyme Dancing on ? " she asked absently . 
" My goodness , look at those women planting things , is n't it primitive ? " 
"About ten-o'clock , I suppose , the Olde Tyme stuff . " 
He did , however , give her the name and address of a very good lawyer who had got him an injunction to restrain a firm from publishing a book until the author had removed a passage attacking him for some slander which had been , in fact , a case of Privilege . 
In spite of all the transferred maternity she was endowed with by her patients , poor Serena was an infant-in-arms as a buyer of property . 
No , not even an infant-in-arms but a new-born babe , a premature piece of frailty in an oxygen-tent of utter innocence . 
The complexity of that innocence was colossal . 
It had layer after layer of illusion to be peeled off and replaced with sad knowledgeability . 
It was a nakedness of nai " vety to be clothed leaf by leaf with the disappointment of experience . 
Her first illusion consisted in the belief that all she need do was to go to an agent , visit half a dozen houses in one day , choose one , make an offer , put it in the hands of a lawyer and go away on her holiday while the whole transaction was put through . 
At the worst , she could postpone their holiday , if she did n't find anything she liked at once . 
August would after all be a little hot for Greece . 
All that mattered was moving . 
For quite suddenly she could n't stand their flat any more . 
She must come back to something new , even if it meant shortening their trip abroad or taking an extra week off to get settled in . 
She soon found that Tom Stevens was right about the prices , whatever their cause . 
The market , moreover , seemed more like one of her graph representations of a psychotic 's dream world than a rational state of affairs carefully calculated by a handful of wicked speculators , though she supposed that these latter might well be the chosen instruments of the city 's collective unconscious . 
For the prices of houses bore no relation whatsoever to their size , beauty , or convenience , only to some lunatic hierarchy of districts by which any area , however traffic-ridden , that could by any considerable wrench of the imagination be called a Village , was also the most plutocratic in its price-range ; that is , any piece of town with one pretty street , square , corner , stretch of river , bit of heath , common or park , round which lesser , uglier streets clustered hopefully , borrowing the same name for themselves as crescents , gardens , garden-crescents , rises , hills , hill-rises , ways and ends , mewses , lanes , groves and vales , could aspire to and perhaps eventually earn the name of Village . 
Slum terraces and workers ' cottages would be bought up , sometimes by enterprising individuals but more often by the wicked speculators for a profitable sale to less enterprising individuals , and one by one the black brick houses would turn white , or pink or blue , with bright yellow doors and flower-boxes in the windows . 
" This street , " the agents would say , " has n't quite come . " 
When it did so , and several more around it , the area would at last receive by way of final decoration and of course price-promotion , the name of Village . 
Second to Villages were the Best Residential Areas , where the affluent middle class had always lived , but they were , after all , limited and unexpandable , and now that practically everyone was affluent middle-class , the Best Residential Areas were so much in demand that prices shot up well beyond the range of the affluent middle-class , and only the milk-bar millionaires lived there , expense-account experts , some of the more successful comedians , the odd reckless film-star , and of course the speculators themselves . 
Fortunately , however , the fashion for Victorian architecture which Mr. John Betjeman had started several decades before had caught on at last and therefore saved the situation for the affluent middle-class , who now had plenty of lovely-ugly to be coldly elegant in . 
All this Serena discovered , and more , but in stages . 
For the first thing she did was to make an offer on a small pink terraced cottage , two beds , two inter-comm. rec. , mod. k. and b. , sep . 
W.C. small back yard , newly dec. , near shops and tube in up-and-coming Camden Town Village , £6,000 Freehold . 
The next thing that Serena discovered was that she could not afford to buy a house at all . 
And this in spite of having at last managed to save the ten percent needed . 
Or so she thought , being then in possession of what seemed to her the princely sum of six hundred pounds . 
The lawyer said : 
"Of course you must count about two hundred for legal charges and stamp duties , maybe less , depending on the price of the house , and whether it has been registered . 
I take it you have a mortgage lined up , then , Mrs. — er — Buttery ? " 
"Not yet , but the bank would give me a loan , I 'm sure . " 
"Er , yes . 
You have some securities , then ? " 
"Well , no . 
Just my work . 
And my husband 's . " 
"No ... life insurance ? " 
Serena had more in common with Stella than she realised , for the word security had meant little to her until now , when she felt this sudden urge to buy property , paying off a mortgage like rent for twenty years and then living free of expense , she thought , when they were " old and grey and full of sleep " — though she hoped she would never be as psychologically asleep as all that . 
All she had ever bothered to insure was her conscious self against just such a submerging sleep . 
She shook her head at Mr. Clacton , who seemed asleep enough himself , both in her terms and his , for it was a hot day and his office was stuffed to its low ceiling with undisturbed books , undisturbed files and dust from probably Dickensian times . 
His aspect was as dusty as his office , with scurf from dusty hair on the dusty shoulders of his black suit , cigarette ash down the front , an ashen face and yellow sleepy dust in the corners of his pale grey eyes . 
His finger-nails were dirty , though he tried to make up for it by constantly paring them with the finger-nail of the opposite hand . 
His voice was like his black and pin-stripe , a grey superimposition of respectability over the original colour of his own natural vowels , the result being somehow as ineffective , not just dusty-grey but muddy , slimy even . 
His digressions too , seemed to have no other purpose than the throwing of dust in his client 's eyes , the dust of fake security , of the fake friend of the family , like the puffs from his Gauloises , which said " Do n't you worry your fluffy little head about that , just lull back in the layers of my experience , " as he told her how he had saved one of his clients from buying a house in which he somehow owned all the bricks and mortar but not the joists , which had been omitted from the Deeds , and how he had learnt from another client who was a greengrocer that all greengrocers cheat the income-tax by a complicated system of unrecorded purchases which has become the norm at Covent Garden . 
" Yes , well .... " 
He judged that she had been sufficiently dazzled and gave a long raucous cough . 
" Only cigarettes worth smoking , these . 
Most unhealthy , English ones . 
Well , now , let me see . 
I think I can put you onto some people who might , I say might , let you have a mortgage on this property .... " 
"But , they 're safe , are they ? 
I mean , they 're not — money-lenders ? " 
" Mrs. — er — Buttery , all mortgage companies are money-lenders . 
That 's rather the point , is n't it ? " 
"No , but I mean — " 
" I know what you mean . 
You may trust me , Mrs. Buttery . 
I think , however , that you might have to revise your ideas about — er — the type of property you intend to purchase . " 
She revised them . 
The little man from the Inter-Insular ( British Archipelago ) Insurance Company soon saw to that . 
He was bald and bouncy , jumping up from her sofa with each explanation , whether because of the sherry she offered him or from a passionate interest in his work she could n't tell . 
When he had jumped up some twenty times , talked of premiums , policies , tax exemptions and survey fees , worked out sums rapidly on Inter-Insular Insurance Company sheets of paper which he produced from a shiny black brief-case , asked many questions about Rupert 's age , health and income , even his salesman 's patter failed to smooth over the traumatic experience undergone by Serena 's relatively sheltered psyche that afternoon . 
Poor Serena . 
In spite of the good marks she had brought home from school she had never grasped the implications or practical application of compound interest . 
She used to solve all the problems set of course , but her conscious mind must have refused to accept the moral shock of it all , so that even now at the age of forty and eleven months , she still assumed that if one borrowed six thousand pounds at six per cent , one paid back , in the end , six thousand plus six per cent of six thousand , that is , six thousand three hundred and sixty pounds . 
The meaning of the words " { 6per annum " had somehow got lost with the years . 
Her second shock was the mortgage rating . 
" You see , Mrs. Buttery , " said the little man rather sadly now , but very fast , like a comic spouting gags , " the value of the policy would be worked out entirely according to your husband 's earnings . 
I 'm afraid we ca n't take yours into account at all . 
It 's a rule of I.I.I . 
You see , you might stop work to have — well , for all sorts of reasons , or you might leave him . " 
"But how utterly extraordinary , " said Serena angrily , " you must be living in the nineteenth century . " 
"Oh , but it 's a very general rule , Mrs. Buttery , you 'll find that no insurance companies , or building societies , for that matter , will allow for the wife 's earnings . 
Our lawyers — " 
"Who are your lawyers ? " 
"Clacton 's . " 
"Well , I 'm damned . " 
"Now , let me see , you say your husband earns about ... yes , that would come to ... three , carry seven , six nines are fifty four — of course we 'd have to have some sort of proof , you know , it 's very difficult with self-employed persons , carry two . 
Yes . 
I 'm afraid we could n't raise this loan to more than three thousand three fifty at the most . 
Now you could get quite a nice little semi-detached house in Grimstead for three thousand , that 's where I live , just before the green belt , lovely and modern , you know . 
I forgot to tell you , we do n't usually lend any house built earlier than 1918 . " 
But Serena was not easily discouraged . 
She had , moreover , a reasonable endowment of intelligence and enough analytical training , specialised though it was , to get to grips with the more megalomaniac vagaries of an unfamiliar world . 
Within three days she had worked it all out . 
It was all quite clear . 
Houses were too expensive , at any rate for poor self-employed individualists like themselves , who nevertheless hankered for respectability and membership of the new and widespread , property-owning , affluent middle-class . 
Therefore they would buy part of a house . 
The market was flooded with long-lease flats for sale , on one and sometimes two floors of vast Victorian mansions , bought up by speculators and converted with more paint than architecture , a glass door here and there , a vine-leaf or cabbage-rose paper on one of the walls , a stainless steel kitchen-sink with perhaps a £45 waste-disposal unit to send the price up by a couple of hundred more . 
" You see , " she propounded to Rupert after her last patient had gone , "we can get three thousand three fifty , perhaps a little more if we can cheat your earnings a bit . 
I 'm sure you could raise the rest from one of your publishers , get two books commissioned and write them later . 
I 've got a bit owing too . 
Now , I saw some flats in Hendon for four thou , and some in West Hampstead for four two fifty , two beds , two reception , k. and b. , just think , our own bathroom . 
Much more spacious than that poky little cottage , which was n't a bit practical really , the reception room was too small when divided and too big when not . 
My Work for the Russian Secret Service By BERNARD HOLLOWOOD , in an interview with Barry Normanton 
I HAD been working at the Council of Industrial Design , in Petty France , for about three months when it happened . 
One day my secretary announced that " a foreign-looking gentleman " wished to see me about a new plastic fabric he had invented . 
" Plastics , schmastics ! " 
I said . 
" Tell him I 'm not ... " 
And at that moment Mr. Rudi Smith announced himself and strode into the office . 
" Please , see , " he said , holding up a square of shiny material , { 3 " it do n't creasing , it do n't shrinking , it do n't ripping . 
I show . " 
He tugged at the plastic which immediately and noiselessly split down the middle . 
Mr. Smith laughed . 
" Ah , " he said , { 3 " I notice you having sense of humour . " 
Over lunch I got to know him better . 
We arranged to meet again in Toni 's Cafe2 off Bread Street . 
For recognition purposes I was to carry a small hammer in one hand , a tiny sickle in the other , and the password was to be " Herbert Read . " 
Fifteen years ago I was pretty innocent . 
You will have to believe me when I tell you that my suspicions were not yet aroused . 
Over coffee and pretzels we talked . 
I complimented him on the improvement in his English . 
" It is nothing , " he said . 
" I perfected my speech in order to know you better . " 
And then he launched into a long , exciting history of the birth of Communism , giving credit punctiliously to the work in England of Marx and Engels , and touching briefly on such matters as dialectical materialism , the marginal utility of land , and Ernest Bevin . 
" You too are for freedom , comrade , " he said . 
I nodded my agreement . 
" It is a new technique , evolved in the Kiev University Faculty of Psychological Warfare . 
It is called brain-washing . " 
What Mr. Smith wanted me to do — and he was of course prepared to pay handsomely , in pounds , dollars , ration books , anything — was to deal him the details , plans and prototypes of the goods being collected together for the great " Britain Can Make It " exhibition . 
He seemed particularly interested in Wedgwood beakers , a Decca record-player and Cooper 's Oxford Marmalade . 
" But if you think British industrial design is so hot , " I said , " why do n't you go ahead and copy it , like the Japanese ? " 
"That would be unethical , " he said , shaking his head . 
" Besides we have n't the manpower available for such work . " 
Every month for two years we met , never of course at the same place twice . 
Usually it was in the stand at a football match , in some billiards saloon or strip show . 
Then we would repair , separately and by different routes , to his rooms on the eighth floor of the Sudbury Hotel in Chiswick , where he kept a small radio transmitter and all the other paraphernalia of his nefarious craft . 
" To think , " I said to him one day , " that in a few moments these microfilmed working drawings of Mappin 's improved percolator will be in Moscow ! " 
"Alas , " he said , "the radius of transmission is small . 
The information will be picked up by our receiver in Reigate and from there smuggled out of the country by pigeon — first to Dinard , then to Ko " ln , and from there by fast car to Moscow . " 
The first break in our arrangement occurred after about eighteen months . 
He had been complaining about the slow rate at which I was feeding him the designs of British consumer goods . 
" Moscow , " he said , " is furious . 
The second five-year plan is nearly up and all we have so far are the drawings for a new cut-glass decanter , an improved aluminium percolator , a trouser-press and a pen that writes wet with dry ink . 
The economy of the USSR is becoming lop-sided . 
Beyond the Urals 350,000 men and women sit idle at the giant refrigerator plant waiting for plans . 
Our department store is overflowing with pens . 
Stalin is livid . " 
And then he told me about Russia 's long-term struggle to wage economic war on the West . 
" The bomb means military stalemate , " he said . 
" From now on we fight for economic supremacy in the world 's markets , in the uncommitted nations . 
We Russians have no experience of consumer goods . 
You British are renowned as the world 's shopkeepers , so — " 
" Some people , " I interrupted , " would say that the Americans now have the lead in industrial design . " 
"American design is vulgar . 
No character . 
The British have dignity and taste and quality . 
Please , comrade , will you not co-operate in the interests of world Communism ? " 
After this I visited Mr. Smith very seldom , and if my memory serves me correctly , the only additional secrets I handed over were plans for a new-style cardigan , a patent cycle hub-cap , a beer-engine and some air-line cutlery . 
Our me2salliance slowly collapsed and until last week I had almost succeeded in forgetting all about it . 
What brought it back were the recorded impressions made by BBC reporters of their May Day visit to Moscow . 
Several of them visited the great department store , Gum , and were surprised to find that many of the goods on sale bore a striking resemblance to their counterparts in British shops — particularly the ball-point pens , cardigans and cut-glass decanters . 
Needless to say , I was not surprised . 
GWYN THOMAS Growing up in Meadow Prospect 6 Reluctant Trouper 
MOST of us come through the years flanked by actors manque2s who placate the virus by getting hold of us from time to time , plastering paint on our faces and pushing us into any strong light that happens to be handy . 
My own Svengali was a teacher called Howie . 
Over the whole period of my youth he kept after me . 
I do n't know exactly what kind of a dog Francis Thompson 's Hound of Heaven was but if it was surer-footed than Howie I would be surprised . 
I am not sure what the Hound wanted of Thompson but what Howie required of me was very simple . 
He wanted me to act . 
The relationship began in the Primary School . 
I was about ten . 
Howie was a graduate who had failed to get a Grammar School post . 
He was disgruntled , idle and apparently mad . 
He had a dark , dissolute face and his main tactic was to lean against a window ledge , looking at us from between his fingers , as if , for sanity 's sake , he was rationing the sight of us . 
The school 's curriculum was narrow and Howie , by the use of a silent inertia , brought it to the point of vanishing . 
He was convinced that we were all perfectly able to write , spell and figure , but that we were making a show of being misinformed to bring Howie a daily inch nearer his last seizure . 
At any show of idiocy he would shout : " Nature bleeds , but I did n't go to University to be a first-aid man . 
Wound it some more . " 
Howie was a Welsh nationalist . 
He swam like a duck around the tank of tears that is fixed firmly in any Celtic past . 
He wrote patriotic playlets . 
Howie had stared at me for a long time and he said I had the true truculent face of an embattled Celt , the sort of features that had looked down at the Saxons through the fogs of Snowdon , thickening them . 
I tried to explain to Howie that my scowl had nothing to do with my being Welsh or a bristling insurgent . 
I looked the way I did because I was in the first stage of nicotine poisoning , genuinely foxed in my attempts to find any hint of promise or logic in my environment , and subject to some terrible ventral upsets brought on by an unwise excess of lentils in the Meadow Prospect diet . 
But I played along with Howie . 
The play cycle he had written had two wheels : anguish and insurrection , and I was the boy who did the major pedalling . 
My first appearance in each case was as a captive and in this Howie left nothing to the fancy . 
I would walk on to the stage bowed down by chains . 
These were very real chains and they slowed me down considerably . 
Most of the first act was taken up with me moving from the wings to the middle of the stage , clanking and enraged , to be told by some king or chieftain to get used to these trimmings because they were to be on me for life . 
I hated those chains . 
They had been left in the Memorial Hall by some escapologist with a leaking memory who forgot not only the essential details of trickery that would have him sailing out of boxes and sacks , but also left his equipment behind him . 
In the Memorial Hall he had had himself chained up and enclosed in a sealed barrel from which he proposed to make his escape in four minutes . 
The darkness must have put him off his stroke , or the chains were of too honest a brand . 
It took two coopers or hoopers to get him out . 
The play on which Howie expended the most labour was one which showed St. David founding his cathedral on the cliffs of Pembrokeshire where a couple of his shin bones can still be seen . 
There was some talk of my taking the part of the saint and I worked my face into a whole new set of patterns to be able to present a picture of gentle innocence . 
I thought that this might possibly mark the opening of a new phase of more tractable and nourishing relationships with my fellows , and I could shed that iron top-coat . 
But Howie was dubious . 
The sight of me fettered and revolted had become one of his drawing cards , and it seemed to pull a satisfying bristle of excitement over the dry skin of his psyche . 
He enquired of a few local hagiologists as to whether St. David had ever gone around in chains . 
They said no , all agreeing that David had been a fairly limber intriguer with a way of keeping on the right side of the gyves . 
Then Howie had the idea of casting me as the sullen landlord , a pagan bully , who takes pleasure in saying that he would much prefer to put David over the cliff than let him have the land required for building the cathedral . 
But Howie could see no way of having this landlord appear in chains . 
The whole point of the play was that from the beginning to the end where he is struck down by a miracle this landlord is a puissant and overbearing man . 
But Howie worked me in after a lot of hard thinking . 
In the last scene the landowner is raising a club to St. David and the saint just stands there smiling , not even lifting his pastoral crook . 
In the original version the landlord gets his quittance by some bit of intercession from on high . 
Howie had favoured a bolt but this would have been hard to stage , so he fell back on a stroke . 
Then he got an even sharper idea . 
As the argument between the landowner and the saint is warming up a very fierce-looking felon , chained , is brought on by an escort of gaolers on his way to the gibbet . 
That was me , back to base . 
I ask my captors for a few minutes ' pause . 
The gibbet is a fair way from the gaol and the chains are heavy . 
I stare at the saint . 
I am trying to remember something . 
The memory gets through . 
Years before , in the middle of some bit of delinquency I had been caught and led before the saint . 
He had fed me and advised me to go straight . 
He had even given me an address to which I could go and apply for some sort of honest work . 
But I had been making too much of a noise with my eating to catch the last part of the address , and in any case I was stupid with youth and flushed with confidence . 
The food had merely given me fresh strength to move more briskly towards some new bit of crookedness . 
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 '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 ... 
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 { 6jeunesse dore2 , 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 '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 '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'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 's party , I did not feel entitled to complain . 
She then asked me why I did n'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' 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 '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 ' 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 '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 .... " 
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 '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 's window is " I am urgently seeking an enormous country house anywhere in England ... " , or " Castle wanted as permanent home by young couple .... " 
There is , however , a hint of well-bred panic in " Agonized family ( 5 ) aesthetic and practical ambitions , urgently require Georgian ( or similar ) house ... derelict castle , unmanageable mansion or anything ... " ; and perhaps an appeal to the { 6esprit 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 .... " 
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 .... " 
However , even if the worst happens , the Top Person 's dogs — provided they are few and small — may be " boarded out { en famille " , in another advertiser '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 . " 
The Voice of the Turtle-dove ANTHONY CARSON 
Vence is a sober spot , half way between small town and village , pigeon grey , sly with arches , and linked by a whispering plot of fountains . 
In the main tree-heavy square you can sit in the autumn sunshine , still burning like a half-cooled iron , sip pastis and read the local newspapers . 
One called { La Patriote is Communist , and at the time of our arrival it was throwing huge over-ripe verbal tomatoes at General de Gaulle . 
One side of this square is a smart but modest bar called Pierre 's Bar . 
For one day , with the help of the Syndicat d'Initiative , we had been hunting for furnished rooms , and had given up , when an elderly lady , the owner of a residence called the Poet 's Nest , had firmly closed the door in our noses . 
" It is a pity , " said Mart , "because it would have been a good address . " 
Now , after a woman 's radar look , she decided Pierre would solve our problems . 
This was true , Pierre was a true Provenc6al , thin and yellow as lemon peel , wrestling with some gnawing rat of an illness , man of all trades , married to a commanding lady who loved small talk and the discreet accumulation of money . 
We went in . 
There were a few people in the bar , elderly , well-off , artistic , who , you felt , had made a hard bargain for giving up . 
" I have furnished rooms , " said Pierre , " and all mod cons . " 
The price was 16,000 francs a month . 
" Yes , " we said immediately , even before viewing . 
We were shown around by Pierre . 
The flat was on the third floor ; two rooms ; soft Provenc6al view ; good intimate furnishing and colour ; running hot water from Butagas installation for washing-up , basin and bidet ; own private , modern lavatory . 
The first night 's sleeping was like a long convalescence . 
We were woken up twice about dawn by a soft eruption of turtle-doves . 
This was strange , even magic , because the owner 's name was Pierre Tortorolo which , in Nicoison Italian means " turtledove " . 
Pierre Turtledove . 
When we woke up properly it was raining , an even more hopeless rain than London , and we looked out of the windows at the weeping trees and the curling white breath of the mountains . 
The land looked like a beaten woman and the turtle-doves cried her shame . 
There they were , in fact , below us , eight of them . 
Four of them were flattened on the window sills , two immolated on a nearby roof top , the other pair copulating . 
We had a morning at Pierre 's . 
He talked about people . 
Marc Chagall used to live here and an Englishman named Lawrence . 
He was here , near the railway station , three or four years . 
During this period he wrote a book , The Lover of Lady Chatterly . 
No , he had n't read it ; Madame did all the reading . 
Lawrence died in this very place . 
He used to come to Pierre 's Bar again and again . 
No , he could n't really remember him , he was one of the crowd . 
The sun came out ; Mart went shopping ; I sat in the square reading the Patriote . 
There was a front-page rear-attack on de Gaulle , and the rest of the paper was given up to murders , apart for an outcry against a proposal to drop radio-active material into the Mediterranean between Corsica and St Raphael . 
All the murders were well documented and had the air of being written by an ingenious , but mad film director of the Thirties . 
They mostly occurred in lonely farm-houses . 
Monsieur H , for instance , had been clubbed and throttled to death by his wife , children and father-in-law , after muddling up some sheep while the worse for drink . 
The family group then sat down for a late lunch before the father-in-law telephoned the police . 
Then again , Monsieur V , owing to family troubles , had written to the local paper and the superintendent of police , informing them that he was on the point of committing suicide , and gratefully leaving his house appurtenances and utensils to the superintendent . 
Monsieur V 's house was immediately surrounded by firemen and other officials , but there was no Monsieur V. He telephoned a few minutes later from a nearby village , apologising for the trouble , but explaining that the walls were porous and the gas had escaped . 
General relief was expressed , but Monsieur V ( this was actually reported in the next issue ) returned home and shot himself , leaving a note which again left his household goods to the superintendent . 
Some grim comic relief was provided by an elderly farm labourer out for a shoot who hid himself in a bush and imitated a blackbird . 
Unfortunately a sporting taxi-driver was after this very bird and shot the farm-labourer in the face . 
All , however , ended well , reported the paper , since the pellets were easily removed and the labourer was able to return to work the same afternoon . 
We travelled down to Nice on the Lambretta . 
You can free-wheel down a quarter of the way . 
In the middle of the journey is a valley with a sea of vines and olives and beaches of earth pricked to blood by the hoe . 
Rising from the flecked sea are islands tapering to shipwrecked castles and towns , grey , rose-headed mariners clinging like limpets to the rock . 
There is a curd of morning smoke and a muffled bell taps the sky . 
Here we stopped , as in fine weather we always stopped . 
Down below is the village of Cagnes , but between are pockets of heat and cold like the hands of friends or strangers , and a flurry of early smells , the dark bosoms of beech and the thin pine fingers kissed by the sun . 
Then here was Nice , and the old holiday sea , blue as a new school exercise book . 
The same old Nice , creamy , vulgar , out of time , bitter-sweet with the ghosts of dead monarchs and brilliant prostitutes , edging past grubby grandeur to the old sleeping port . 
This , and Paris , were my ruined pavilions , and I could catch the taste of dead dreams on my tongue like spray . 
We parked the Lambretta opposite the Negresco , and went to the beach to have a swim . 
Amazing bedlam rocked in our eyes . 
The sea boiled with waves , they galloped to the walls and spumed over the Promenade des Anglais . 
A huge crowd had collected . 
There were firemen and policemen and ambulances , and the eyes of the spectators were hard with disaster . 
They all had that neat look of Mediterranean people to whom nothing could ever happen , the chosen sane , the uncuckolded , unrobbed , sheltered from disease and accident by doctors , God and the municipality . 
Yet , at any time now , the bell would ring for them — the gilded love house , the mad grandmother or the bloody child at the crossroads . 
Mart , too , was sucked into the crowd , not because she felt immune from horror , but because for her the world was always ending , except in bed . 
I joined her . 
Far out at sea we could see a circular rubber object with a body on it . 
The body was the colour of rotten marble . 
" It 's a woman , " said Mart . 
A boat was approaching it , and someone in oilskins leant over the boat and fell in . 
It was accidental , but nobody in the crowd made a sound . 
It was as if the visible world were an infamous church . 
Then two men grappled on to the marble body and slowly dragged it up on to the boat . 
It was growing cold . 
We left the crowd and drove back to Vence . 
The cool evening perfumes stood beckoning at the corners of the roads . 
Mart is unable to smell ( her sense organs were impaired years ago ) , and I had to explain the low , sharp and sweet signals in the air . 
When we got back home we felt exhausted . 
London sickness ( a sense of guilt , mingled with the memory of sandwiches and incestuous Soho pubs ) still numbed our brains and bodies . 
We went straight to bed and slept until the turtle-doves drummed up the sun . 
The next morning , in the square opposite Pierre 's , I read about the Nice beach catastrophe in the Patriote . 
Mart had been right , the body had been a woman 's . 
It belonged to a Madame N. Enquiries had been made in the neighbourhood , and it transpired that Madame N 's husband had made an arrangement with the dead lady 's sister to launch her into the strong sea and there be left to perish . 
The sister , able to swim , had returned to the shore , but instead of returning to her brother-in-law ( with whom she had an illicit relationship ) , she went to her fiance2 's house and confessed everything . 
Her fiance2 reported her to the police , and then jumped off a cliff near Monte Carlo . 
Homage for Isaac Babel DORIS LESSING 
The day I promised to take Catherine down to visit my young friend Philip at his school in the country , we were to leave at eleven , but she arrived at nine . 
Her blue dress was new , and so were her fashionable shoes . 
Her hair had just been done . 
She looked more than ever like a pink and gold Renoir girl who expects everything from life . 
Catherine lives in a white house overlooking the sweeping brown tides of the river . 
She helped me clean up my flat with a devotion which said that she felt small flats were altogether more romantic than large houses . 
We drank tea , and talked mainly about Philip , who , being 15 , has pure stern tastes in everything from food to music . 
Catherine looked at the books lying around his room , and asked if she might borrow the stories of Isaac Babel to read on the train . 
Catherine is 13 . 
I suggested she might find them difficult , but she said , " Philip reads them , does n't he ? " 
During the journey I read newspapers and watched her pretty frowning face as she turned the pages of Babel , for she was determined to let nothing get between her and her ambition to be worthy of Philip . 
At the school , which is charming , civilised and expensive , the two children walked together across green fields , and I followed , seeing how the sun gilded their bright friendly heads turned towards each other as they talked . 
In Catherine 's left hand she carried the stories of Isaac Babel . 
After lunch we went to the pictures . 
Philip allowed it to be seen that he thought going to the pictures just for the fun of it was not worthy of intelligent people , but he made the concession , for our sakes . 
For his sake we chose the more serious of the two films that were showing in the little town . 
It was about a good priest who helped criminals in New York . 
His goodness , however , was not enough to prevent one of them from being sent to the gas chamber ; and Philip and I waited with Catherine in the dark until she had stopped crying and could face the light of a golden evening . 
At the entrance of the cinema the doorman was lying in wait for anyone who had red eyes . 
Grasping Catherine by her suffering arm , he said bitterly : " Yes , why are you crying , he had to be punished for his crime , did n't he ? " 
Catherine stared at him , incredulous . 
Philip rescued her by saying with disdain : " Some people do n't know right from wrong even when its demonstrated to them . " 
The doorman turned his attention to the next red-eyed emerger from the dark ; and we went on together to the station , the children silent because of the cruelty of the world . 
Finally Catherine said , her eyes wet again : " I think its all absolutely beastly , and I ca n't bear to think about it . " 
And Philip said : " But we 've got to think about it , do n't you see , because if we do n't it 'll just go on and on , do n't you see ? " 
In the train going back to London I sat beside Catherine . 
She had the stories open in front of her , but she said : " Philip 's awfully lucky . 
I wish I went to that school . 
Did you notice that girl who said hullo to him in the garden ? " 
Stopping and Mowing ( Instructions that should have come with my motor mower ) 
WE WELCOME you to the ranks of satisfied owners of Motor Mowers . 
Well , " ranks " is hardly the word , you think you 're an officer now you 've got one of these , do n't you , ha ha ! 
Just because your lawn is a bit bigger than the average suburban size , you see yourself gently ambling behind this thing , painting a swathe of perfect greensward as you go ... 
Who do you think you are ? 
This is the cheapest model we make , all gaudily painted to attract people like you . 
You must know that proper lawns , belonging to stately homes or golf clubs , are made with proper , dark green mowers , that the man sits on in a shiny steel saddle ; old mowers , that we made fifty years ago , efficient , heavy , inherited by their owners , long before these modern notions of egalitarianism and an expanding economy compelled us to turn out these fiddling little things for people like you , to keep our factory going in off periods , when we are not servicing these proper , old mowers for our titled clients . 
However , since you 've bought it , and much good may it do you , here are a few hints . 
STARTING ( a ) From cold : 
1 . 
Take the plug out . 
Watch that little tin thing sticking up ; it catches your knuckles when the spanner suddenly gives . 
We 've given you a set of spanners , made of lead . 
2 . 
Clean the plug , if possible . 
It will be smothered in oil , because you have to put the oil in the petrol ; there is no separate lubrication system . 
You probably think the oil is ignited with the petrol vapour in the cylinder , so how can you lubricate an engine with smoke ? 
Well , as you can see , it is n't ignited . 
It just wets the plug . 
3 . 
Undo the nut at the bottom of the cylinder , and a lot more oil will dribble out — well , you should n't have it on the grass yet . 
Put the nut back — steady , not too tight , the bottom of the cylinder is made of lead , too . 
Well , now you 've broken the thread , just make it as tight as you can . 
3a . 
You 've left the washer off that nut . 
That 's why you broke the thread . 
No garage will have a washer that size , you 'd better start looking for it in the grass . 
4 . 
Put plug back , and watch out for your other knuckles . 
Aah , sorry ! 
The same knuckles . 
Not too tight , you wo n't get away with doing this just once , you 'll only make it hard to undo again . 
5 . 
Kick starter ( or pull rope , if it 's one of those ) . 
Again . 
Full choke . 
Again , again , again . 
Full throttle . 
Again twenty-seven times , with every possible combination of throttle and choke . 
Again , with half thrott — 
6 . 
Switch the petrol on , you fool . 
7 . 
Repeat ( 5 ) . 
Then repeat ( 1-4 ) , plug will be wetter than when you started by now . 
8 . 
Repeat ( 5 ) again . 
Go and lie down for a bit . 
9 . 
Run like hell with it in gear . 
STARTING ( b ) From hot : 
It is impossible to start this engine from hot . 
It is something to do with that oil vapour . 
Once you let it stop , you 've had it , you 'll have to wait for it to get stone-cold and start from the beginning . 
Just do n't leave it for a second , and keep it roaring . 
ADJUSTMENT OF BLADES : 
There is a hairbreadth adjustment on this machine , between the position where it just brushes the top of the grass and the one where it digs great gashes in the earth . 
Practice with a new electric light switch . 
If you can find a position where the light just flickers between " on " and " off " you 'll be able to wangle these blades . 
Remember that they are finely , not to say neurotically adjusted . 
Quite a small pebble will wrench the blades out of shape . 
You will know when this has happened when they either make a frightful clanging noise or wo n't go round at all . 
The people for whom we make our proper mowers do not have pebbles on their lawns , let alone the small metal fire engines , dolls ' boots , plastic alphabets , nails and spoons that litter yours . 
OPERATION : 
It is only possible to operate this machine at a steady trot . 
At ordinary walking pace it will stall . 
And remember , the clutch is not a gradual affair like the one on a car . 
The instant you engage it the machine will rush away , with or without you . 
So it 's no good trying to cut round those silly little circular rosebeds you have . 
This machine only mows in a dead straight line , any curves and you 'll dig into the earth . 
What do you expect for the price you paid , a differential axle ? 
MAINTENANCE : 
You will find a number of little contraptions with spring caps , for putting the oil in . 
They wo n't leave room for the spout of any oilcan , however thin ; you 'll just have to squirt away , making an oozy mess , and hope some of it 's getting in . 
Soon the spring caps will come off , anyway ; then there 'll just be these little holes blocked with oily grass . 
Finally , three golden rules : 
1 . 
Keep a magnet for finding washers , spring caps , nuts , etc . 
2 . 
NEVER LET IT STOP . 
3 . 
Do n't give your hand-mower away . 
Official Deceiver 
AS ANY typist knows , the typewriter reveals the subconscious of the machine age mainly by three simple devices ( or decives ) ; the confusion of c with v , of k with l , and the interchange of vowels ( e.g. paino for piano ) or vonsonants . 
Much more linguistic research has been devoted to these three "major " substitutions than to the two " minor " ones — the appearance of the figure 8 in place of the apostrophe and of m for the comma . 
This last always seems to me like a self-deprecatory clearing of the throat , a rudimentary ahem , as if to suggest that all man8s thought is improvisedm and should not be taken too seriously . 
Of all the words thrown up by my typewriter I have yet to see one more real and significant than bunkrapt . 
Everybody knows what ordinary bankruptcy is , and the gloomier vommentators often speak of " the bankruptcy of our civilisation " . 
Now vivilization can never really be bankrupt ; the very word suggests that vivilized man is vivified , alive — and as long as he8s alice there8s hope . 
It is mere defeatism to say that our vicilization is bankrupt ; but once , by means of the typewriterm we have isolated this voncept of bunkraptcy , we are like Bright and Hodgkinm isolating and naming those diseases which bear their names . 
We are half-way , if not to curing , at least to vuring it . 
For what is bunkraptcy but the state of being rapt by bunk , entranced by rubbish , absorbed by frovilous unreality ? 
A bunkrapt is , surely , a man who sits for hours staring at TC , or reading newspapers filled with gissop volumns retailing the acticities ( too often extramartial ) of worthless nenontities such as acrots and catresses , film srats and coroners . 
There is an invurable fricolity about a bunkrapt , a refusal to face up to reality ; the full stature of man is diminished in him . 
After all it 's no good pretending the world isn8t real . 
It 's only too lear . 
But in our vicilization any man who faves up to the real world is pat to be dubbed " square " . 
There is real danger to the civilization of the Wets here . 
It is no good simply sneering at the Russians for being "puranitical " when actually they are simply more teun with the lear facts of life than we are . 
Unless we pukk up our socks the Russiansm the " squares " , will have the kast kaugh ; and very unpleasant it wikk sound . 
What is to be done , then ? 
I would suggest , now we have found the word for what is wrong with us , that there is a way out without being purinatical or " quares " . 
Why do we not treat bunkraptcy precisely as we treat bankruptcy ? 
Let us have a Bunkraptcy Vourt , before which persons who had gone bunkrapt would have to appear . 
But the proceedings would be medical as well as legal . 
Bunkraptcy is a disease as well as a crime , and would have to be treated partly as crime was terated in Samuel Butler 's Nowhere — i.e. medivally . 
It should not be difficult to work out a set of standard tests for determining a man 's Reality Quotient ( { 5RQ ) , analogous to the IQ tests . 
After all , many psychoolgists spend their whole lives working out tests named after themselves . 
The tests should take into account a man8s whole being , not just his tastes in entertainment . 
A baker , let us saym would score so many points for doing a real job that for him to read or view bunk would not be nearly so serious as for a stockbroker , engaged in a job that is fundamentally unlear , nothing to do with making or fashioning anything except money . 
A stockbroker would lose heavily for reading fricolous newspapers . 
Anyone with children reasonably well brought up would have a head start . 
But a serious person who read no bunk at all wouldn8t come off too well ; the thing is not to be rapt by it . 
The legal side of the Bunkraptcy Vourt would consist in the fact that a person with a { 5RQ below the statuotry mimunim would be registered as an induscharged bunkrapt , not allowed to take any part in public life until , after attendance at a Herabilitation Centre , he had upgraded his { 5RQ . 
Some may think that this would be starting from the wrong end , that personal Bunkraptcy is an inevitable , unblameable response to living in an over-complex , fractured society in which even the creative ratists who set the tone of our cicikization are no longer all-round totally real men like Shakespeare ; they are men who exclusively , intensely mebody one snigle facet of life , such as dismebodied intellect ( Shaw ) , misonygy ( Stringberd ) , historical pattern ( Tonybee ) , sexaul feredom ( Lawrence . 
Only a bunkrapt vicilization could have made such an extraordinary { 5cause ve3lebre of Lady Chattelrey 's Lover ) . 
This may be so . 
But if writers hace changed the worldm may not typewriters change it also ? 
M ? 
The Obliviscents 
HOW CURIOUS England will be in fifty years ' time , when every fair-sized town has a university , doubtless interconnected by motorways , and everyone under twenty-five is a student , belonging to that Union ( ideally the motorways would have a special lane for dons — a tutorway — so as to make these increasingly scarce men rapidly available to several universities ) . 
People like me , who spend their whole lives trying not merely to keep the facts within a subject separate ( answer quickly now , what are a full cadence , a half-cadence , a plagal cadence , a false cadence ? ) but to prevent the subjects themselves from merging into a comfortable academic dreamland , nothing to do with actual life , will be even worse off than we are now . 
How shall we possibly hold up our heads among all these students , on whom these universities will have acted like hypo , fixing for ever the clear photographic images , bright , separate , distinct , that we all had at the height of our powers , when we were sixteen ? 
( Hypo what ? 
Hypochloride . 
Hyposulphate ? 
Hypocrite ? 
You see what I mean . ) 
There ought to be a word for us : obliviscents , people who forget . 
Of course , everyone forgets ; but obliviscents are people who try not to , who worry about it . 
The other day the word Mardonius popped into my head from nowhere . 
I could n't for the life of me remember whether he was Greek or Persian , although I could remember writing an essay about him at school . 
But surely it is n't all or nothing , must we admit that all that effort is as if it had never been ? 
Was it not something , at least , to know he was B.C. , and not , for instance , a Roman ? 
So I clung to this shadowy Mardonius , simultaneously a hard , noble Greek soldier and a soft , curling-lipped Persian tyrant ; bearded and clean-shaven ; on both sides at once , a faint ghost-Mardonius in the sky ; a potentiality , only half-real. 16 CHINESE GEESE 
EARLY in our occupation of Pond Cottage , when it was yet scarcely homely , I heard another and uglier noise . 
It was the voices of two geese , and they were to plague us for many a month . 
Looking out of my bedroom window in the early light I observed these lovely birds floating lightly on the water 's surface and giving off at intervals a colourable imitation of a klaxon-horn . 
Inquiry revealed that they were the property of one of my neighbours , whose custom it was to give them the freedom of the water at frequent intervals . 
They were of the kind called Chinese geese but they were far from inscrutable . 
They were vile in temper , dreadful bullies and cowards , noisy in and out of season , and , as I have said , really beautiful . 
It seemed surprising to me that so much that was objectionable should reside in such a lovely source . 
An inquiry of their owner , a calm man who seemed unmoved by their clamour , as parents enjoy the crying of their children , revealed the excellent news that , though he had hoped for better things , they were both females and unlikely on that account to produce young of their kind . 
I realized that I had had a fortunate escape when he also added that they were the only two survivors of a brood of eight . 
" Terribly delicate , they are , as chicks " , he said , and it was , I dare say , too much to hope that this delicacy would persist into adult life . 
It was perhaps evidence of their unabatable vitality that during the two years I knew them they produced , and brooded upon , infertile eggs of very large size in considerable numbers , one of which the owner presented to me " for my breakfast " . 
Now either I had to live with them , a nearly impossible proposition , since every time I put my head over the hedge they produced a series of loud metallic cries , or I had to get rid of them . 
Actually the latter was my only course since they had already decided either to attack or hoot at all comers . 
Their technique was to rush at you , and they were not small birds , heads lowered and outstretched , and uttering their offensive cries so loudly that they could be ( and in fact they were ) heard a mile off . 
If you stood your ground they came to a stop and sidled off in another direction . 
How could I dispose of them ? 
I had to do it without offence to their owner — who , as I say , was a peaceable , decent chap — but I had also another hurdle to jump . 
Just along the road lived a local animal lover , who had already eyed me suspiciously when I had moved on the several cats who , in various degrees of decrepitude , were mothered by her . 
I began my campaign by the usual shooing process . 
This merely amused the geese . 
They appeared to look elsewhere , indeed , until I realized afresh , as you have to , that all birds look at you from the sides of their heads . 
They might sail a couple of yards away , drawing themselves up to the highest points of their dignity , but they would immediately and in unison , as if from a radio signal , veer around and make back to the place from which their manoeuvre had begun . 
Arm waving produced no results except to incite them to guttural grunts of derision . 
I must admit that I thought of many desperate measures : of going out at night with an airgun ; of throwing poisoned bread upon the waters ( which would have been useless since , unlike moorhens , they did not take to bread , and appeared to subsist on a diet of grass ) . 
My alarm was increased by my reference to a book on pet keeping which confirmed my worst fears about Chinese geese . 
It actually warned pet keepers against the wisdom of attempting to keep both Chinese geese and friendly neighbours . 
I presented the book to their owner but if he read that passage it did not affect his behaviour . 
In fairness to myself I must add that I had no wish to hurt the geese . 
It had to be psychological warfare , mental cruelty . 
In the end I decided that a process of steady discouragement was the only policy . 
Whenever they appeared on the pond , and I was present , I threw a sprinkle of small grit around them . 
At first they exhibited no emotion apart from comical surprise . 
I persisted in this sprinkling campaign for nearly a whole winter , not without success . 
As spring approached they appeared less and less , and indeed on seeing me they would , without undue haste , turn around and retreat to whence they came . 
For a time an intermittent peace reigned on the pond . 
If other terrors arising from the pond population came and went ( as , for instance , the day my wife saw a large rat walk slowly across our bridge towards the front door , or the sudden surprise of beady shrew-eyes from the pond 's grass banks ) , at least we had seemingly rid ourselves , without offending anyone openly , of our Chinese geese . 
Between whiles a charming bevy of about a dozen white ( and more or less silent ) geese occasionally trooped down the village street , fluttered and splashed in the pond for a while and then , in solemn dignified file , returned to their drier quarters . 
They should have been grateful to me , for when the Chinese geese were about they had no difficulty in hounding off these peaceful creatures . 
If this chapter reads like a successful rout , I am sorry to have given you the wrong impression . 
Those Chinese geese finally fooled me and everyone else . 
In May , in our second Pond Cottage summer , these two geese returned , and with them , unaccountably , there shuffled to the water 's edge a clutch of six chicks , faintly yet assuredly resembling their parents . 
That was one of the turning points of my life as a pond-dweller. 17 PARISH PUMP 
RUMOUR had had it for some years past that water — a parish supply as it is called — was on its way to Wilborough . 
The supply of water to remote villages and hamlets is one of the beneficent functions performed in this rather deplorable century . 
In villages it marks the end of water as a precious liquid , to be dispensed frugally , weighed out drop by drop . 
Living at Pond Cottage I had been able to appreciate my own ample supplies while viewing the bucket-dipping villagers from my window . 
There were periods when I was amazed at the rareness of their visits to the spring — yet it could not be denied that the villagers were clean people , even shining clean . 
Those who had lived in the heart of the countryside will know that , in the sense of grubbiness , as opposed to good , clean dirt , it is not easy to get dirty . 
When we first lived in the country my wife worried as to who would clean our windows . 
We searched around for a window-cleaner , but she need not have worried . 
When we left that cottage two years later the windows , though never touched , were as clean as when we came in . 
If the country air is good for complexions and windows it must also be marvellously disinfectant . 
The amount of waste of one kind and another that has to be destroyed or concealed in any village has to be thought about to be believed . 
In villages — of the thatched variety — it is not safe to light a bonfire to burn rubbish . 
In most cases it is consigned to the kindly , effacing earth ; in others chickens and birds are the agents of disposal . 
Where the material is indestructible , well , every village has its dumping ground , its ancient pits — and now and again , as we know , there is luckily a pond or stream . 
One day the surveyors arrived . 
They paused long outside Pond Cottage to decide the line of pipes , and they eyed the pond itself with glances made up equally of anxiety and animosity . 
This was their lowest point , and after the spanning of our little valley they could once more rise . 
The village was full of depressing rumours . 
They would drain the pond ; they would run pipes across the arches of the little bridge ; and so on . 
Fortunately the plans of the water engineers lay elsewhere . 
With a mechanical digging monster , eating up earth and rocks with equal ease , they dug a deep trench on the side of the road furthest from the pond 's edge . 
To the barely suppressed satisfaction of most of us the excavation immediately filled with water , and thereafter the scene became a morass : ditch , ruts , mud , grey-brown hillocks of earth , large stones , untidy clods of grass , with a few pieces of newspaper and some old cement bags thrown in for good measure . 
It remained thus for a whole summer . 
An attempted laying of pipes began . 
A small pump arrived and cleared the trench of water long enough for the pipes to be set in position . 
Then the water once more resumed its engulfing sway . 
So that the ditch could be cleared sufficiently of water for sealing the joints , a more delicate job , the little petrol pump was again conjured to work valiantly — but it proved unequal to its task . 
The trench remained obstinately full ; the water seeped in as fast as it was pumped away . 
For some weeks the matter remained thus , while the supervisors , who occasionally arrived in shining saloon cars , scratched their heads over the problem . 
The impasse was finally broken one rainy Saturday . 
A man-sized pump arrived borne upon the platform of a lorry . 
It was this pump which was to prove the major enemy , and not the water . 
Anyone who has ever had to deal with a Diesel or petrol engine will know the possibilities of trouble here . 
They are bad enough on a hot afternoon with a lawn-mower . 
These men went through all the known processes to the point of exhaustion . 
The engine started , stopped , started , stopped again , always for no apparent reason . 
The four men concerned explored all possibilities and experienced every feeling from hope to despair . 
They cajoled , wheedled , entreated , tinkered . 
Eventually they knocked off for a smoke and a cup of tea . 
This campaign proceeded for an entire morning . 
I was amazed at the workmen 's stolid patience . 
Then as we were all giving up in despair , for I shared their experience from my window , the pump started and continued genially as if it too had had enough and wanted to perform its task and get home for the day . 
Once going , the job was tidied up , the trench filled , in less than an hour ; and the landscape settled into the condition of quiet waiting which had been its role through the ages . 
Soon the grass would grow again over the trench and over the piped water of the twentieth century . 
About a month later a number of workmen came through the village and , with the active co-operation of the villagers , made little right-angled connections with the main pipe to each front door taking the water . 
This was a job soon dispatched although fraught with small obstacles in the way of trickles of springs beneath the road surface . 
It remained then for the villagers to take the water indoors . 
On a fine spring morning came the news by post from the rural district council that water would be put into pipes on a particular date , and that supplies could then be delivered . 
On that day a villager in a cottage turned a tap — and the utility of Wilborough Pond was , after a thousand years , ended . 
Thereafter it became a piece of the landscape . 
I had a sign written , taking the first Saxon mention of the village . 
I hung it on our gate : THIS POND , FOR A THOUSAND YEARS , PROVIDED WATER TO THE VILLAGERS OF THIS HAMLET A.D. 888-1957. 18 CHAIN OF LIFE 
STEADY effort for nearly two years , punctuated by bursts of great energy , had been put to the end of making the pond and its cottage a piece of landscape such as you read about or see in a film : a veritable picture . 
All new equipment takes a bit of getting used to . 
It was some time before one 's spoon became a weapon of relative precision and the pudding finished up in one 's mouth instead of in one 's right ear or on the wall behind one . 
Gloves , hairbrushes , lavatories — pretty well all the accessories of everyday life — were unmanageable to begin with ; but in that distant era one received patient and elaborate coaching in their use . 
Middle age has no mentors ; nobody says , " No , not like that , dear . 
Like this . " 
I defy anyone who puts on a pair of spectacles for the first time not to feel that he has done it in a slightly ridiculous way . 
And so , in all probability , he has , as , grasping the fragile contraption in both hands , he fastens it uncertainly on his face like a man putting on a false beard at some ghastly rout . 
Not since — in something of the same surreptitious , apprehensive manner — he smoked his first cigarette has he been so unexpectedly reminded that there is a right way and a wrong way of doing things . 
Once having lodged upon his nose what he used scornfully to call gig-lamps , he makes a long , searching scrutiny of his reflection in the mirror . 
There can be no doubt that he looks extremely odd . 
Life has played a practical joke on him , but it is an obscure rather than an unkind practical joke . 
Although he still regards spectacles as { 6per se faintly ridiculous ( why else do we say bespectacled — cf. begrimed , bedizened and besotted — and not betrousered or even bebearded ? ) , he persuades himself that he looks no sillier than he looked before . 
Rather , indeed , the reverse . 
A certain gravitas has been added . 
He finds himself for the first time wondering whether he might not have had a considerable future as a dentist , or in the Treasury . 
But he has still to present this new persona to the world , and face the world 's reactions . 
Way back , when similar ordeals were undergone , no pains were spared to allay his misgivings and boost his morale . 
" But , darling , you look so nice in it ! 
Does n't he , Nanny ? 
It 's awfully becoming . 
All the other little boys at the party will be wearing — well , the same sort of thing only I expect not so nice . 
I promise you they will . " 
None of this nonsense now . 
He knows what he will get from his children . 
The spectacles confer , in his view , a patriarchal air ; they delicately underline the eventual need for { petits soins ; he can almost feel the rug round his knees , smell the aroma of the cocoa simmering on the hob . 
( The blacksmith should be able to knock up a hob . ) 
But he knows what he will get from his children , and he gets it . 
" Daddy ! " they scream , convulsed with laughter . 
" What are you up to ? 
Why are you wearing spectacles ? 
You do look funny ! " 
A rat caught in a gin-trap by one leg will often gnaw the leg off . 
To disembarrass your face of spectacles involves a simpler , far less drastic process ; but if you have never done it before it is difficult to do it as though to the manner born . 
You can not lay your ears back ; you do not show the whites of your obsolescent eyes . 
But your face , emerging from between the shafts , inevitably reflects the part-rebellious , part-apprehensive , part-apologetic expression of an old saddle-horse which has not previously worn harness . 
Once you have expunged from their minds the idea that you are dressing up in order to amuse them , your new gimmick can be explained to your children ; but it can not be airily explained , any more than it can to your over-facetious or over-solicitous contemporaries . 
I had hardly obtained a pair of spectacles when I ceased to need them , my eyes suddenly getting a second wind . 
This reprieve ( which for all I know is a common occurrence ) began soon after one of my aunts recommended yeast to me as a cure for failing memory . 
My memory is appalling . 
I shovelled down the unexpired portion of my aunt 's yeast-ration — this was at the breakfast-table — and continued for a time to eat the stuff . 
Post , I suspect , rather than { 6propter hoc I threw away my reading glasses ; my memory continued to deteriorate . 
Two or three years later a minor military campaign in Arabia strengthened the delusion that for me spectacles were a thing of the past . 
So refulgent was the sun , and so few the place-names on our unreliable maps , that I snapped my fingers at Salisbury Plain and the deep misgivings aroused upon it . 
But now — grateful for a reprieve none the worse for a dummy run — I am once more , when I read , bespectacled . 
THE MAN WE KILLED 
One of us is a Cabinet Minister . 
One of us died of drink last month . 
One of us is an earl . 
One committed suicide many years ago . 
One , I think , is an expert on Russia . 
One is an admiral . 
Some I have forgotten altogether . 
Several others must be dead . 
The man we killed was called Mr Jackson . 
He was a master at our private school towards the end of the First War . 
I do not remember him as clearly as I should ; one reason for this is that he did not last long . 
I suppose he was about twenty-five . 
He had reddish hair which stood up over his forehead in a quiff . 
He wore spectacles with metal rims and a blazer with a crest on the breast pocket . 
He was very short-sighted and we believed him to make matters worse by not cleaning his spectacles . 
He had a plaintive , rather common voice and a lolloping gait . 
He took the Sixth Form in ( I think ) Greek ; I am ashamed that I can not remember his subject with certainty . 
Mr Jackson was , I suppose , fairly typical of the sort of material with which headmasters have to make up their staffs in the closing stages of a major war . 
All I can recall about his previous career is that it had taken him to Singapore , where , he told us , the natives played football with bare feet . 
He had served as a special constable during disturbances in the city , and was easily encouraged to relate his memories of those stirring times . 
They were not sensational ; once Mr Jackson had been on duty all night and it had rained without stopping . 
It would be interesting to know how many hours or days or weeks in the school year are lost to learning by boys inducing masters to embark on martial or other reminiscences . 
In my time at Eton there was a French master — and he really looked like a French master — called M. Larsonnier , who had served with the French contingent which helped to sack Peking after the Boxer Rebellion . 
If you could only get him started , he had a splendid set-piece . 
" Who was ze first into ze Forbidden City ? 
It was I ! 
Who was ze first into ze Winter Palace ? 
It was I ! 
Who was ze first into ze Empress Dowager 's bedroom ? 
It was I ! " 
" And who " ( we would wittily chime in ) " was ze first into ze Empress Dowager 's bed ? " 
I imagine that less time is wasted in this way at girls ' schools . 
Mr Jackson never had a chance . 
It was not merely that he had no authority and was easily gulled ; school-masters of this more or less helpless kind generally arouse in their tormentors a sort of mercy or tolerance , based perhaps on the feeling that if they are handled too barbarously they will be replaced by some sterner fellow and there will be no more cakes and ale . 
But for some reason we actively disliked Mr Jackson , who had a cocksure manner and a grating personality , and we gave him the full treatment . 
Our school was near the coast , and soon after he arrived , Mr. Jackson , jaded no doubt by the enervating climate of the tropics , was heard to speak in appreciative terms of the sea-breezes which stole into his bedroom . 
We took the first opportunity of wedging a bloater under the springs of his mattress . 
" Good morning , sir . 
Lovely fresh breeze this morning , is n't there ? 
You 'd never think we were a mile from the sea , would you , sir ? " 
Mr. Jackson would concur in a baffled way . 
At length masters with adjacent bedrooms were impelled to investigate , and the putrescent bloater was removed . 
" Good morning , sir . 
Did you see that perfectly beastly case in the paper , sir ? 
No , sir , not that one ; after all , there 's nothing specially unpatriotic about murder . 
We meant the case where the man was fined for hoarding food . 
I do think that sort of thing is absolutely rotten when there 's a war on , do n't you , sir ? 
Apparently he used to hide it in his bedroom ..... " 
And so on . 
Our worst excesses are lost in oblivion , but my recollection is that we kept up a relentless pressure and that Mr. Jackson ceased to be cocksure and became jumpy , irritable and maladjusted . 
In the only incident I remember clearly , indeed vividly , I played the leading part . 
Mr. Jackson was the sort of master who impels boys , once they have established an ascendancy over him , to see how much further they can go , and one day I decided to take a grass-snake into his class . 
We wore , in the summer , grey sweaters and grey flannel shorts . 
I put the grass-snake , which was about three feet long but used to being handled , in my pocket and kept my hand over it as a precaution . 
It had had a feed a few days before and at first observed a perfect decorum . 
After a bit I became over-confident and relaxed my vigilance . 
The snake got its head up my sleeve and began to climb up my arm . 
Readers who have been in this particular situation will know that , once a serpent has started climbing up your arm under your sleeve , it matters little how much of the serpent is left in your pocket ; you can not get it back into the pocket by using the arm it is climbing up , and you can not bring your other hand into play against it without taking your sweater off , which — leaving snakes and schoolmasters out of it — I defy anyone to do with one hand in his pocket . 
Being at the top of the class , I sat directly underneath Mr. Jackson 's beaky nose . 
I was in a quandary . 
Seventyfive per cent . 
of the snake had not yet passed the start-line and was still in my pocket . 
I decided to try to stabilise this situation and gripped it convulsively round what , if it had been me , would have corresponded to its chest . 
The snake can not be blamed for failing to understand my motives . 
It felt thwarted , and began to hiss . 
Human beings , when they hiss , hiss outwards ; a grass-snake makes a sound exactly like a human being drawing his breath sharply inwards while stitches are being taken out of a wound . 
" Strix , " asked Mr. Jackson , peering down at me , " are you in pain ? " 
"No , sir , " I said . 
I thought it prudent to let go of the snake . 
It stopped hissing but went on climbing . 
My urgent duty now was to prevent it doing what , if left to itself , it would do , which was to make a bid for freedom by wriggling out through the collar of my sweater . 
By this time , the snake 's rear echelon having left my pocket , I had both hands free and was easily able , by clasping them to my throat in a rather precious manner , to deny it egress . 
The snake turned south , towards my midriff . 
It now had room to manoeuvre and was moving well ; there was nothing to do but to grab it before it escaped from my sweater . 
I clasped one hand to my stomach and got it round the neck . 
It started hissing again . 
" What is the matter ? " asked Mr. Jackson irritably . 
" Is something hurting you ? " 
My bosom was heaving convulsively , on account of the snake .