I began my official love affair with England in 1998, the year I read ‘A Dance to the Music of Time‘. Powell’s England was the England of Cambridge and weekend country estates, 1930s London; frenzied parties and the apprehension of war. And Widmerpool, the pompous, powerful man of cigars and whisky, leather armchairs and gentleman’s clubs. I imagined myself as Pamela Flitton; quite mad and irresistible, leaving a trail of ruined men behind me. It’s an England that has long since ceased (if it ever really existed), but there are remnants of something like it, scattered about. Over the years I have caught glimpses of that wealth. And power. Behind the ubiquitous brick frontages of Chelsea and Kensington, the wine bars of the City and West End; the London that is discreetly folded away from public view.
I suspect it is where most of the deals are done.
I once had a five hour lunch with a much older gentleman colleague, who had gone to Cambridge; he ordered from the menu in fluent French and was full of witty, clever anecdotes. We had bonded in the office over a shared love of Pasternak. I was a little smitten with his old-fashioned (and ultimately failed) attempt to woo me. During lunch an immaculately dressed man with unfeasibly large ears approached our table and asked my companion who ‘this delightful creature’ was.
It turned out that Ears was a member of the House of Lords.
That was my Pamela Flitton lunch.
Last night I met two friends for supper at a private members club in Portman Square. A beautiful Georgian regency house, rich in history; it also has a funky champagne bar (it looks just like a fucking spaceship) that by 10pm was jammed fulled of the young and achingly trendy.
Post-work, I felt quite at home with the suits in the lounge. It was a fun night; a glimpse into that other London. These days I am less impressed with the romance of it all, and while I could shell out the membership fee, I would never really become a member of that world. It is closed to the likes of me, without the right school, the account at Coutts, and I suspect still, the penis.
Comments
NO amount of club memberships are worth the hassle of a penis. Don’t do it.
Especially the penis part.
That club in Portman Square is Home House which housed the Courtauld Institute of Art, where I took my MA. I remember it as a very different building, filled with books, Impressionist paintings and eminent Art Historians. There was nothing funky about it then. I have not seen it since it became a club. I do hope they have not damaged Robert Adam’s design.
I would LOVE to be called a delightful creature, even by someone with unfeasibly large ears.
I like the way you write!
I suspect you’re right sas.
I like this a lot but it’s really not about the penis.
I went to Oxford, I can order in French and even I have a couple of anecdotes. But I wouldn’t fit in any more than you. It’s about that unassailable self-belief those people have, it serves them far better than actual talent. That and money.
Check my blog out. You’ve won something.
I love books like that, and never heard of that series, so have just added the first one to my must-read list.
I used to work as the membership director at a fancy private club, and most of the members really needed to get over themselves.
A Dance to the Music of Time is on my have-read-but-must-read-again list.
@Paul its now two or three houses they have knocked through. Adam’s design is still very much intact including the stunning staircase.
I understand that it was originally owned by Countess Home, who Adam worked for. She held very grand parties there.