This morning I woke up in a bleary haze, half-way through my two-day holidays and already suffering symptoms of stress withdrawal: headache, twitchy fingers and an insatiable desire for cheap white bread, toasted. On my left hand was scrawled a note, which I could just about readâ€”I am myopic to the tune of -10 in my worse eyeâ€”as saying “RING TOM WOLFE”.
Gosh, I thought. I couldn’t immediately remember what I’d been up to last night, but clearly I’d made great inroads into the literary world if that was the company I was now keeping. Some ten seconds later it started resolving itself into “RING TOM: NO LIFT”. As realisation dawned the phone rang: it was Tom, wondering when I was going to pick him up.
You can’t buy this sort of rarefied glamour, you know. As Gore himself was saying last night, over a whole hog roast.