I took the noon flight for Heathrow the next day. I’m not one of the jet-set, more of the biplane set, Johanna says, but I don’t at all mind flying except in those terrifying little planes where you sit in the open behind the driver and have to rap on his helmet if you want to tell him to slow down a bit. This was a large, experienced-looking craft and it said on the side that its engines came from the Rolls-Royce stable, most reassuring. Two Jersey worthies whom I know slightly took the seats beside me and, when we were air-borne, I ordered three large gins-and-tonics with my customary munificence. The hostess asked me if I wanted them all in one glass; I believe she was being pert.

You don’t have to go right into London nowadays if you’re headed West: an airline’s bus takes you from Heathrow to Reading quite painlessly and trains thence to Oxford, where Dryden, my old tutor, hoves, are plentiful.

Goodness, have you seen Oxford Station since they did it up? It’s quite amazingly smart and modern and not much more than twice as inconvenient as it was before.

Something quite dreadful happened to me as I stood outside the station waiting for Dryden: a leprous creature, clad in filthy tatters, beard matted and barbaric necklaces jingling, shambled up to me, mopping and mowing, his demeanour both piteous and threatening.

‘Be off with you!’ I quavered valiantly, brandishing my umbrella. ‘I shall not submit to your mugging; I happen to be a personal friend of the station-master, aye, and of the Warden of All Souls, too!’

‘Mr Mortdecai?’ he fluted in the purest Wykehamist tones. ‘My name’s Francis, I’m a pupil of Dr Dryden, he’s asked me to pick you up, he can’t come himself, he’s got the squitters. I’ve got the crabs, if you want to know,’ he added gloomily. ‘And a tutorial and two demos tomorrow.’

I fumbled around in my word-bag for a while.

‘How do you do?’ I said at length.

He took charge of my suitcase and led me to about five thousand pounds’ worth of Italian GT motor-car in which we vroomed painlessly towards the dreaming-spires section of the city. I didn’t know quite what to chat about, it’s the generation gap I suppose. He was extraordinarily civil and, on closer inspection, as clean as can be. I think he was just boasting about the crabs.