Some sort of justice

— though distressingly prosaic — was served on me yesterday. I had just published a press column warning poor Rowan Williams that he would soon be savaged by the pack when someone came round from the Sunday Programme to interview me on Careyballs.

At once I discovered myself behaving like a typical interviewee: equivocating, pompous, and treacherous. I could hear every twinge of sincerity in the voice of my interlocutor, and recognised them at once from my own practice. So how could I trust a word he said? I knew already that I couldn’t trust a word of mine.

In the end, as I drove him to the station, I mentioned that I am in the middle of writing an Analysis programme. That way, we were both on the same side. I hope; and drove home reflecting on one of my favourite bits of Rochester.

For wits are treated just like common whores
First they’re enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors.

The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains,

and frights th’enjoyer with succeeding pains.
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