THE ARTS editor summed it up, standing at the door to the bar with his arms outspread like a prophet delivering a benediction: "Feck! Drink! Older women!" He'd had stomach trouble that day, not feeling too good, cold evening, only just got the fire going, could run to a cup of tea perhaps but as for going out for a beer, out of the question. All his ancestral Scottish genes were yearning to say, "You'll have had your tea," but years of living in Cambridge and the iron was rusting in his soul. He softened up fast, after easing his feelings with a brief introductory lecture on his ailments, an...
