Battered fish, mushy peas, chips and tartar sauce followed by rice pudding with jam for lunch yesterday. Beer is available every day but wine is usually only served on Sundays. They very decently broke this rule for me so I had a couple of glasses of white Bergerac.
There were some thirty-two of us at four tables in the dining room, so my table was lucky in the wine department. On one side I had a friend (the only other guest) who was occupied talking to his other neighbour, so I monopolised Gordon on my left. He has lived here for more than thirty years and is about to celebrate his 93rd birthday. I should say that when residents have birthdays they usually treat the room to wine for lunch. They seemed extraordinarily well-versed on their fellows’ dates of birth.
I first came last year so I had already met two of the residents and yesterday talked with about five more including, currently, the only lady resident. She will be joined by others later this month. She quite rightly thought it was rude of me to ask her about her life and told me so, although she volunteered that it was in fashion, and wanted to know why I don’t have a job. Working in the City and getting the sack seemed to satisfy her. Everyone I met was just the sort of person I’d like to sit beside at the club table at my St James’s Club. I think they sift out the bores by taking new residents on probation for six months.
My friend and I were not the only New Boys at lunch; the new chairman of the trustees was making his first appearance. The residents were aware of this but did not know what he looks like. Some of them with a sporting inclination placed bets and I was the favourite. I suspect my friend came second by a short head and the real chairman third by a distance; he looks too young and my military tie gave me an edge.
For the residents it was a normal Friday – fish for lunch. For me it was the greatest fun and privilege to meet such gents (+lady) in such a place. It will not remain a secret much longer – at least to readers here.
Charterhouse?
I was going to bet on either the Charterhouse or Morden College…
My guess as well based on Anthony Powell the North Buckingshire novelist.
Rather flattering to be mistaken for a General
Especially a General who was earlier in his career known as the (blonde) boy Brigadier.
That was Buckinghamshire in previous post. A friend once started a novel with Stuart Preston like chap in Charterhouse and the elderly coves who visit him like Baby Jungman,Mrs Orwell et al…he dropped this twee drenched project and wrote one,mildly readable,about Tahiti.