'Dr Wattle,' I announced one morning, when I'd been enjoying three square meals a day for several weeks. 'I wonder whether you'd mind if I popped down to Town this Saturday? I've just remembered I've got some laundry to collect.'

'My dear boy! Go whenever and wherever you wish.'

'That's jolly civil of you. Awfully annoying, and all that, but I'd better make the trip.'

The following Saturday evening found me once again in the genial glow of Piccadilly Circus, breathing the carcinogenic hydrocarbons and watching the neon sunrise as the lights came on.

I don't think there's any sensation to compare with arriving in London after a spell of exile, even if it's only your summer holidays. I felt I'd never seen anything so beautiful as the submarine glow of the misty streetlamps, heard anything as cheerful as the nightly torrent ebbing towards the suburbs, nor smelt any perfume so sweet as the reek of a London Transport omnibus.

But I couldn't waste time admiring the scenery, and went to a telephone box, looked through my little black book, then rang up Petunia Bancroft.

Petunia was a little brunette and an actress. I've had a weakness for the stage ever since I was a medical student and nearly eloped with a young woman who was sawn in two twice nightly by a Palladium conjurer, until I discovered that she was in fact a pair of young women, and I'd picked the half with the shocking varicose veins. Petunia had been a chum of mine for many years, though unfortunately her ideas of entertainment rather exceeded her theatrical standing-usually she just walked on the stage and announced dinner was ready, but after the show she knocked back champagne like the great leading ladies when the stuff was five bob a bottle. Also, she had a rather hysterical personality, and was likely to throw the dessert about and bite the head waiter. But after a month in Porterhampton, Petunia seemed just what I needed.