I am a fan of the Spectator magazine; nevertheless, my subscription fell victim to my own scythe of expenditure cuts as, with the business in the early summer doldrums of the election and the World Cup, I felt a cold need to economise.The business has picked up somewhat since, thank heaven, and I knew I was beginning to miss the Friday morning thump of magazine on doormat when a charming man rang me out of the blue one day just after Christmas. “We’d like you back,” he said enigmatically.
Turned out he was from the Spectator’s subscription department and he promised me an offer that I couldn’t refuse if I would only proffer my card details and sign on again there and then. A year’s supply of the magazine at a bargain basement price.
“Are you sure you are who you say you are?” I asked, remembering the form of words that a customs official had used when I had tried to return to Britain from Ireland without a passport in the mistaken belief that identity wasn’t needed in those halcyon days of long ago. That situation eventually resolved itself when I found in an inner crevice of my wallet a shotgun certificate, which apparently was enough to prove my case. I suppose he thought you couldn’t make up something like that. The two labradors packed into the back of the shaky MGB must have driven out any other suspicions. Illegal immigrants don’t travel with labradors, do they? Well, maybe they should.
Still, now the boot was on the other foot. My man on the telephone - with a pleasant voice that sounded as if it might not be unfamiliar with the company of labradors - told me he knew my customer number, though as that could have been anything it didn’t get us very far. It is not a piece of information I pin to the noticeboard above my desk which is my store of easy reference.
I suggested he gave me a number and I rang him back - but by that stage I was convinced of his bona fides. In fact I would have given my card details to anyone possessed of such a knowledge of the Spectator’s book reviews and Low Life Column to which (having once played the great Jeffrey Bernard who wrote the column for a matter of decades) I am most particularly attached. I reached for my wallet.
The first delivery would be in a couple of weeks, he said. “Fine,” I replied. “I can wait.” I began to look forward again to the friendly Friday morning thud.
But then nothing happened. My account wasn’t debited and no Spectator arrived. The weeks went by; I even received a letter in the post asking me to subscribe to yet another offer this time with the inducement of a half bottle of champagne if I did so.
I had almost forgotten the episode altogether when yesterday there it was, on the doormat.
So this morning I was sitting at the kitchen table in my dressing gown leafing through the articles over my yogurt and reading a particularly sad chapter in Jeremy Clarke’s Low Life column when the door bell rang. Early, I thought for salesmen; and I wasn't expecting a delivery.
The postman carried two long box parcels - both identical, both addressed to me. The word ‘Vineyard’ figured prominently on the label; a clue to their contents. I opened one to find a half bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne. “Thank you for waiting, it’s good to have you back,” was what I imagined the message to say.
My heart leapt. I have a child’s delight in being appreciated.
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And my spirits do need restoration. Last evening in the drama club to which I devote far too much time I sad huddled up and morose, not speaking to anyone, like a child in a sulk. No one had done anything to offend me - it was just the black dog, which descends whenever I have to learn a big part for a play. Every time. At first you start finding other reasons for feeling down - a cold coming on, worries about finances, a row with someone. But I know the true culprit is line learning. I face a fine judgment whether to plough on and risk more depression, or to take a week off (for the effect is cumulative) before starting again.
Eventually I perked up and enjoyed a conversation about wine with someone who sells the stuff for a living and whose knowledge appeared encyclopaedic. He recommended several but sadly my battered brain this morning can remember only one and this because the name ‘Carmanière,’ is similar to ‘Carmagnole’ - a French Revolutionary ‘dance' and song that I sung once. It is a fine red and comes from Chile. I wonder if they sell it in Waitrose?
