Day Three

Well, today I took a day off from everything. no number crunching, no email, no writing poetry, no work on my novel (see blog Day Two), no entertaining of wife or offspring or even grand offspring. I went to Oxford, selfishly on my own.

Went to a lecture at the Bodleian Library by Justin Reay, who is working his way through Samuel Pepys' naval papers in the Bodleian collections. I won't say too much about the lecture, which was fine, but Sam Pepys, known for his diaries, also left 150,000 manuscripts, bits of paper if you like, but all either official papers, or his comments, on his work as clerk to the Navy Board and the Admiralty. When he retired he refused to let the authorities have his papers, which is why we still have them today. Nobody has worked their way through all of them, but Justin Reay is doing his best and will publish a book in 2010.

That was my reason for going to Oxford today. After the lecture there was wine and sandwiches, fine, except that the sandwiches were served at large square tables in a confined space, so that once you were seated, there was no way you could get out for a second glass of wine, so I only had one. Talked to a charming elderly lady, who I think would also have liked to get out for a second glass of wine. She worked for 40 years as an administrator of the Ashmolean Museum. She knew a bit about a contemporary of Pepys, Peter Mundy, a merchant trader from Penryn near Falmouth in Cornwall, who kept a much longer diary than Pepys, and was with Pepys at the restoration of Charles 2nd. But I know more about Peter Mundy than she does, so I might tell you a bit about him in a later blog, like the fact that he sailed from Cornwall to India and saw the Taj Mahal under construction, and returned some years later when it was finished.

Anyway, there I was in Oxford, so I walked along the edge of Christ Church meadow, by the River Thames, though being Oxford the Thames has to have a different name, which is the Isis, so I walked along by the Isis. The students, in very slender boats, eight to a boat, with a little fellow as cox, sometimes a girl, were practicing their rowing among the swans and geese and ducks. They have young men on bicycles riding along the towpath with megaphones telling them what do do. Apparently this has something to do with producing the next generation who will be in charge of our destiny. I know these hooray henrys have been in charge of our destiny throughout my life. I have survived, so I'm not too worried about it. We'll vote for them when its their turn, and we'll all cope with whatever mess they make.

On my way to the railway station, I called in at the Randolph Hotel, as you do, and had a glass of wine in the Morse Bar. The Randolph is a very posh hotel. It is the equivalent of popping into the Dorchester or the Ritz in London, but of course its not, its in a provincial city, Oxford. So it is not quite so devastating on the wallet. The Morse Bar has comfortable chairs and you don't have to go to the bar, there is waiter service. I have no idea what they charge for beer, but I can tell you a glass of red wine is £7.25, much more than I would ever pay for a bottle at home (I know rent, rates, barmen, waiters, heating, of course I know all that) so before you venture in there you have to decide, is this really worth the expense to an old aged pensioner. Of course it is, if you can afford it. It is served in a crystal glass, and the waiter brings the empty glass to your table, shows you the wine, pours a bit into your glass, gives you a sniff, allows you a taste, just as if you were buying the bottle. So of course you say its OK. It would be so embarrasing to say otherwise, unless you're an anarchist, bent on causing mayhem in the Randolph Hotel. After all you are not buying the bottle, just a glass.

Kevin Whately, the actor who plays Morse's sidekick Lewis, swept into the bar followed by an entourage of about eight assorted minders. He had a quick word with the barman then swept out again. The hangers on all sat down and proceeded to consume numerous assorted drinks which presumably went on to Kevin's bill. They certainly didn't pay. Must have cost him a fortune.

So there I sat sipping my wine from its crystal glass. Oh I forgot to mention, the £7.25 includes your own little compartmented glass dish with nuts, biscuits, two sorts of olives, sticks for the olives and a teaspoon.

A photographer with one of those big cameras you see on the news when they mention paparazzi. He looked round the bar obviously looking for K Whately who was no longer there. "Too late mate, he's gone," said one of the gang, but Ken Livingston's right behind you." I looked the way the man was pointing, out of the doorway of the bar where you could see the Reception desk, and sure enough there was Ken in a long grey mac signing in with the lady he has recently married.

The photographer thought they were having him on, but after a while he did look round, by which time Ken Livingstone had gone. He did not quite understand why they were all laughing. He should have just stayed by the door. Interesting people come in all the time.

In 1954, I was secretary of the Oxford University English Club and we persuaded W Somerset Maugham to come and speak to us. Some of us, the committee, arranged to entertain him for dinner before the meeting, and because he was a world renowned author, it had to be at the Randolph. We met him and led him to the Dining Room (naturally called the restaurant nowadays, but the dining room then) and the waiter showed him the menu. We all wondered whether we would be able to afford the bill if he ordered the most expensive dishes on the menu, every item of which was way beyond our own individual means.

He studied the menu for some time. The waiter obviously knew he was the guest of honour, so went to him first. Somerset Maugham had a rather miserably sour way of speaking, a sort of peevish whyne. He was eighty years old at the time, and very wrinkly.

He said "I would like a Melton Mowbray pork pie, if you please." The waiter said, "Certainly Sir, I will see whether that can be arranged." In a few minutes the Manager arrived and said, "Would Sir require anything with the pork pie?"
"English mustard, Coleman's of Norwich if you please."
"Certainly Sir. The pie will be with you just as soon as we can obtain it from our butcher."

The poor butcher was probably at home bathing his kids, or at the pub, or making love, or whatever, but a man he did not know, would never meet, demanded a Melton Mowbray pork pie. In order to remain the supplier of meat to the Randolph Hotel, he had to produce the pie, and he did.

Ten minutes walk from the Randolph took me to the station and the train back to London. A very satisfactory day I think.