The outpourings of legendary journalist William Lethe were mostly reviled or ignored by his contemporaries. Many of his articles remained unpublished, but after his tragic death somebody found them, and threw them away.
9.55 p.m. Tucking one hand firmly in my pocket, I open the door with the other.
As I walk back into the room, John looks up at me and he knows. I know he knows. He knows I know, and I am aware of this.
It was inevitable that my apprehension at having to fake what I supposed he would expect to be my natural reaction to his expectant glance would subtly undermine my attempt to fulfil his expectations.
Sitting on the floor, Henrietta draws slowly on a large hand-rolled “spiff” and, exhaling, is consumed in a shroud of smoke. The airborne carcinogens spiral menacingly upward, and a large blue cloud envelops my head and floods my lungs. My immediate reaction is to stagger, coughing and clutching my throat, to the window and fling it open.
A minute later I remember that I have told the others that I have done this before. It is too late. Now they know. And I know they know. What’s more, they know I know they know.
Henrietta offers me the “spiff”.
“?”
“Uh?”
“Well?”
“Look … I’ve, ah, got a bit of a chesty cough at the moment.”
“Oh.”
Henrietta passes the “spiff” to John. Alison picks up another Scruples card and turns to me.
This is the moment that I have been trying to steel myself for.
“Ready?”
“Ah.”
“Shall I read your question, then?”
I feel my teeth clench and beads of sweat form on my forehead.
A good question would involve a reasonable measure of hypothesis, speculative forays into a future unproblematic in its remoteness from the real or even the probable. I can unequivocally assert my immense magnanimity, sensibility and intellectual superiority, and demonstrate a secure grasp of all aspects of the socio-psychological issues pertaining to the particular problem at hand. I will discuss the probabilities and possibilities of the issue with disinterested directness, secure in the knowledge that no stain could attach to the carefully cultivated persona which I have purposely created for use in intimate, informal gatherings such as these.
My question comes: “At an intimate, informal gathering of friends, you go to the toilet only to find that no towels have been put out. If you wish to wash your hands you must either be prepared to leave them wet, or ask your host for a towel. Do you bother to wash your hands?”
I look nervously around. John looks over at me. He knows. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. But knowing this will not help me.
I say: “I’d better call a cab.”
