So my friend <mmmmph> rings up and says how nice it was to see me in London the other night, and how we must meet again at some party without the Archbishop of Canterbury hosting it. The conversations circles for a little while.
bq. Then he says, “Do you remember when we were talking to Rowan?”
“Did I tell him to cheer up, we journalists weren’t his enemies.”
“Do you remember what we were talking about?”
“Yes. Child soldiers, mostly.”
“Oh. I can’t remember that. In fact I can’t remember anything about how I got back to my hotel. I must have taken a taxi, but I was completely pissed. Are you sure we only talked about child soldiers? What did we say?”
“Well. Rowan wanted to know how they could be rehabilitated, and you wanted to talk about how arms companies profited from them, and I wanted to talk about the technology that makes it all possible. He said you should read his speech at Great Ormonde Street Hospital.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“It’s on his web site.”
[abstracted clicking noises]
“Oh. I’ve found it. I can write to him now and say how much I admired it. … You’re sure I didn’t say that thing about journalists?”
“Because I rang my wife as I was leaving Lambeth Palace and said that I had done.”
“Ah. Well, I was perfectly sober at the beginning of the evening, and I told Jane then that if their son had come down to see all the journalists he should have bought a killing bottle and a collecting pin.”
p. No wonder that every Archbishop gives one drinks party, and one drinks party only, where he is expected to mingle with the press.