name dropping

I don’t know where I saw the job, and have no idea how I came to apply for it. It was still early days in London. The idea of being a personal assistant did not appeal, and I was completely unqualified, fibbing that I could touch type, and had shorthand. I even went to a couple of shorthand classes.

I got the tube from Rayners Lane to South Ken and wore a tie. The interview was in her home, where she worked. Although I never found out what her work consisted of, besides being the widow of the country's most brilliant post-war theatre critic. Her home was in Thurlow Square, which I passed through this evening on the way to doing an unlikely hour or so on Lorca with a Texan/ Uruguayan combination.

Her manner was almost as grand as her home. It didn’t phase me. I had been educated to deal with grand manners. It must have been obvious within about thirty seconds that I was the wrong young Wykehamist. She asked me how I was at dealing with famous people. She told me that Princess Margaret came round for tea quite regularly. Would I be happy to make tea for Princess Margaret? I may have hesitated, but said I didn’t see why it should have been a problem.

She said she’d call and let me know, as though there was anything to know. A week or so later I called her, and she half apologised and said the post had been filled. She had been meaning to get round to telling me.