An excruciating experience last night: I had been to a rather grand lecture in one of the City churches, followed by a reception in a livery company’s hall. Really nice Californian wine, gravlax in the nibbles, and I felt I ought to justify myself by asking the lecturer a question. So I approached him, asked, and he drew breath for a long reply. As soon as he started speaking, and exhaling, I ducked my head, as if listening reverently but actually because I was enveloped in choking, miasmic halitosis. He was a very tall man, so his breath seemed to settle all round me wherever I stood within earshot. I remembered whole African villages silently wiped out by the poisonous exhalations of the volcanoes that stand above them. How could his best friend get close enough to tell him, I wondered, with my mouth clamped shut.
Blogging is not perhaps the answer to this social embarrassment, but what is?
Meanwhile, I picked up three juicy rumours. The two that are probably entirely untrue, are that the Bishop of London is to become the next Dean of Westminster; and that the Archbishop of Canterbury is sick of the job and will leave it after the next Lambeth conference. This last one has been officially and explicitly denied by Lambeth Palace, and so probably won’t be printed. I suppose it is entirely characteristic of rumour that I have forgotten the one that was undoubtedly true. In any case, it is of interest only to anoraks.