There was a young woman in my bedroom this morning. Did I become
breathless and weak at the knees? No. Did I become excited and begin to tremble
uncontrollably? No. I took it all in my stride, maintaining a laudable degree
of equanimity in spite of the fact that no other young woman has crossed that
hallowed threshold in the fifteen years I’ve lived here. I didn’t even need to
make any effort, and so it would appear to be true that old habits do, indeed,
die hard.
You will no doubt have surmised that it was the land agent come to check whether my place of abode is a fit and proper habitation for a denizen of the 21st century to lay his head at night (I didn’t get around to mentioning that I’m somewhat removed from being a denizen of the 21st century, and she didn’t ask, so I think I managed to keep my reputation intact.) ‘Do the taps work,’ was what she did ask. ‘Yes.’
As she was leaving I decided to grill her gently, and maybe a little surreptitiously, in order to establish an opinion as to whether she is a nice person. I got the impression that she is, so she can come again if she wants to.
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