SLIM VOLUMES


I'd spent the morning at the Commonwealth Institute. Well, not all
morning but let's not dwell on it. So, having an hour to myself before lunch,
I thought I would wander over and take a look at Albert, in his new coat.

The High Street is always a good stroll, into Kensington Road and
then along Kensington Gore, with the Gardens on your left, and there,
the Royal Albert Hall looming, across the road. I was about to turn
left into Alexandra Gate when I was astonished to see my old friend
... call him 'Eustace' - he's one of those Englishmen, getting out of
a cab opposite me. I wasn't that surprised, sure, just that he looked
absolutely bloody marvelous, which was in itself a shock. He had on
grey slacks and a blazer in that stuff Jaeger sells to the tourists,
cashmere, nearly.

We shook hands and I saw that his were quite exquisitely manicured. I
could hardly believe it. The last time I'd seen him he was crawling up
the down escalator at Leicester Square wearing one shoe and a tall hat
with 10/6 on a card in the band and he was shouting obscenities at the
theatre crowds until he rolled over in a dead faint and I helped him
onto the train to Highgate slipping a fiver into his pocket for cab
fare.

The Albert Memorial has just been restored, as you know, newly gilded
and given a thorough makeover. Not before time, you might think, if you
cared about these things; anyway, there we were, me and 'Eustace' on a
bright Autumn morning looking up at the Prince Consort in all his new
glory. I didn't say anything to 'Eustace' about his own renewal but it
was in the air - you know? Your man was a vision. I mean to say, he put
the Prince Consort to shame.

I could hardly say no when 'Eustace' offered to buy me lunch. We took
a bracing walk along the Serpentine, past the restaurant, and made our
way across Hyde Park Corner to Piccadilly and down to Soho. It was odd
that neither of us mentioned the recent tragedy, 'Eustace' especially.
He had always had a lot to say about the Poet Laureate, none of it com-
plimentary, and he knew I was no admirer of the fellow's work. Turned
out 'Eustace' had a new book out, in time for Christmas, another one
of his slim volumes of gentrified verses for the new genteel. He had
found his niche, his hollow, let's be honest, and he was stuck in it.
He taught at one of those glass menageries in North London, contract
lecturing he called it. He had a big house on the wrong side of Highgate
Hill and a small wife whose civil service salary kept them in comfort.
He'd given up the drink, on doctor'd orders, he said. Overnight, he said.
Six years ago. Fuck me, I said.

Today, we had a good lunch, a sober lunch, and talked about the old
days. I reminded him, I always did, about how he was the one who had
introduced us all to the IBM Golf Ball, all those years ago, and how
we changed the world overnight, only nobody knew. We parted about
three o'clock, promising to write, like we used to, and I walked away
down Shaftesbury Avenue. I couldn't help thinking that poetry can just
about ruin a man, if he isn't careful.