'Suppose I do come across anything which actually does have some literary merit?' I asked. He grunted: 'That would be extremely unlikely, but by all means let Miss Caughey know if you do find anything genuinely readable.'

This arrangement suited both of us down to the ground and although by late September I had not found a single decent manuscript to show to him, Mr. MacArthur nevertheless invited me to a slap-up dinner at the Savoy Hotel to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of Hartfield and Moser Ltd.

Perhaps it was an over-indulgence when the excellent vintage port was passed round the table, but I didn't wake up until slightly after quarter past eight the following morning. On most days this would have been of little consequence, but today I was due to meet Lord Philip Pelham at half past ten and take a spin out of town in his new motor car with two young ladies from the chorus line of Hold Your Hand Out, Naughty Boy, the latest musical show at the Empire, Leicester Square.

So on the count of three I leaped out of bed to welcome the rays of bright sunshine which were shining through the bedroom curtains. I drew them back before divesting myself of my nightshirt to stand stark naked in front of the window which I opened-only to hear a shocked giggle floating up from our small back garden.

Alas, I had forgotten that at this time young Sally, our daily domestic, might be hanging up the washing. As luck would have it, I looked down at the buxom girl just as she glanced up in my direction with a saucy smile on her face and my best shirt draped over her arm. But the grandstand view of my nude torso did not appear to bother Sally overmuch, even though my cock was standing up stiffly against my tummy (for in these youthful days I invariably woke up with a tremendous hard-on).