On Being Used.

I was about twenty two at the time, and was in Winchester for a week on a staff training course. I went into a pub I’d long wanted to visit (because it was supposed to be haunted by the ghost of Lady Lisle who was executed there after the Monmouth Rebellion.)

Anyway, I got myself a pint, took a seat in the lounge bar, and waited for t’ghost to turn up (from one of the Albert monologues made famous by Stanley Holloway.) What actually turned up was a pretty young blonde who asked whether she could join me. I considered replying: ‘Get thee hence, strumpet. Do I in any way resemble the sort of morally impoverished male who would allow a hussy of your calibre to pollute his sanctified space?’ But I didn’t. I bought her a drink instead, and we spent the next hour or so discussing this and that and getting on very nicely thank you. And then she said:

‘I have to go now. Thanks for the drink.’

‘So soon?’ I replied. I’d begun to get the impression, you see, that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship with Winchester and all who sail in her.

‘Yes. My boyfriend’s watching me.’ (She pointed him out, scowling at us from the bar around the corner.) ‘We’d had an argument, so I came and sat with you to make him jealous.’ And then she left.

That’s not the only story of similar ilk that I could recount regarding my dealings with the fairer sex. Another happened in the same pub on another trip to Winchester. You’d think they’d put a warning notice on the door, wouldn’t you? And there was my mother fearing I would be led astray by women of dubious intent.