![]() ![]() The voice came from an elderly gent, salt-and-pepper whiskers, country-pub suit, regimental tie not the brown rice type at all unless retired brigadiers were going vegetarian in 1965. “Excuse me young man,” said someone parked opposite. But where I wanted to be was Bald Hills, Moscow, St Petersburg, the sanguinary, smoke-choked fields of battle.Īround the corner from the store was a salad-and-brown-rice lunch bar where you sat at tables of scrubbed pine and toyed with vinegary mounds of alfalfa sprouts. Every so often I would emerge from the back office cubbyhole to flog a thousand feet of plush curtaining to interior decorators for third-world dictators. ![]() ![]() I was stuck in a dull vacation job, the only straight in the village that was the soft furnishings department of a big West End department store. Weary of being told by a Cambridge friend that it was the best book ever written, that everything men and women do to each other was its subject, I gave in. ![]()
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