The telephone in my suite at the Royal signals ‘message waiting’, but I cannot be bothered to check it. I turn on the teletext for world news, and flick through the diplomatic debris of the now-ended Gulf War. In Israel, people are dancing in the streets at the lifting of the Iraqi Scud-missile threat. I rejoice with them, for a cloud has drifted from my skies and I can sleep without fear of further catastrophe.

On my bedside table I review a plastic parade of homoeopathic and chemical relaxants and sleeping pills, ready for ingestion. I sweep up the lot in the crook of an arm, march into the bathroom and empty each container down the toilet, flushing and reflushing until the last pill has disappeared. No more props for me. I will take life as it comes and take my rest when I am ready.

The telephone jangles next morning at eight. It is Myrtle, in the accusative.

‘Where were you last night, dear? Why didn’t you ring me back? I was worried.’

‘Everything’s fine, dear, just went to bed a bit late, interminable meetings and late supper.’

‘Well, never mind that. I need you to come back tomorrow instead of Friday. The Brents are coming to dinner and I’d like you to help me with some shopping and choosing the wines.’

The Brents are her trophy guests: Lord and Lady Brent, formerly Simon and Joyce Whitehill (Weisberg), a pair of Finchley creeps who got ennobled for donations to Mrs Thatcher’s party and took their lordly name from the local shopping centre. Simon is an empty-headed accountant, Joyce a bridge-player too far. Myrtle flutters about them like an Edwardian scullery-maid, mopping up their spilt drinks and bons mots, all but bloody curtsying. I refresh their drinks, mutter, ‘That’s interesting’, slump back in the divan and think wanly of England. The Brents make me want to emigrate.

‘Sorry, dear, simply impossible.’ I sigh with maximum sincerity. ‘Far too much to do up here, all sorts of interesting possibilities emerging. I’ll fill you in when I get back.’

‘Nonsense, Martin,’ she insists. ‘You’re never going to make any money in that dismal heap of potholes, and you’re far too old to be getting into new ventures. You should have retired two years ago, when the doctor told you. You promised me you would take it easy, but on the one occasion I need your help, you pretend that a tiny bit of business is more important. That’s so inconsiderate. I sometimes wonder why I still put up with you.’

She has not quite finished, so I place the receiver on the pillow as I get dressed and murmur formulaic emollients each time I pass by. When her irritation is played out, I take the phone and assure Myrtle that she is the most important person in my life. That seems to do the trick.