Delhi Belly in London and Bill Clinton in Hong Kong
My Dear Old Pal,
Quel horreur. That I should make a long overdue visit to the old country and miss out on oysters and projectile vomiting in Quo Vadis with my old mucker. It's a tragedy and no mistake guv'nor, as my driver was saying only the other day.
Yes, I fear it is true. As the message on your mobile phone no doubt tardily confirmed I was in the Grand Metropolis and seat of Empire not ten days ago. Lest we shed tears too soon let me add that due to a little gift from one of our more recent ex-colonies I was in fact confined to barracks. In layman's terms I was struck down with Delhi-Belly having arrived in London from that very place.
I was truly outraged I can tell you. The precautions I had taken prior to my trip were as follows; I had decided that I did not intend to get ill. Feeling amply prepared for whatever our dear friends could throw at me I was at once assailed by tasty dishes of various descriptions too numerous to list here. All went according to plan and I was able to conclude some trifling business matters in total comfort. However five days into my Indian residency my stout English constitution began to protest. Ignoring it like the seasoned campaigner that I am I boarded the British Airways aeroplane for England knowing that on arrival all unpleasantness would be left on the sub-continent.
Upon my arrival I dashed into town to have an umbrella fitting at Messrs. Jas. Smith and Sons. That done, and armed with a rather special English Apple wood number, I continued on my quest for wet weather apparel by purchasing a Fawn Mackintosh with a rather dandy check lining. It was upon completion of this transaction that India paid me a return visit. With the help of a public convenience or two I was able to gain the sanctuary of mine hosts, and it was there that I stayed for the duration of my visit.
I managed to watch some excellent cricket, for which I might add I am developing a latent fondness, but of strong liquor and fine food I consumed not an ounce. After five days of house arrest I took one of Sir Richard's shiny machines back to the New World and of course arrived in perfect health.
And, having signed on for this cursed employment racket I have no immediate opportunity for a return visit. It's diabolical. I'm not saying w**k doesn't help with one's tailor's bills, but as a gentleman I shouldn't be paying 'em anyway.
Talking of tailors and gentlemen, I had an interesting encounter on the aeroplane from New York to Hong Kong, en route to India. Arriving at check-in I was interested to note hordes of ear-piece wearing, gun toting, dark suited G-men. Assuming they were protecting some kind of vile Republican government vermin I ignored them.
A couple of hours into the flight, reclining in club class luxury with a pink gin in one hand and the other held slightly aloft and angled at the wrist giving the correct air of languid insouciance, I looked up at the grey flannel clad waiter who I assumed was bringing me a refresher, and it was none other than the ex-President and world-class swordsman himself, Bill Clinton.
And what is more he was looking down at me with a conspiratorial smile that said 'A couple of the Stew's are game, are you up for bit of mile-high?' I need hardly tell you that my 'Hello' was somewhat strangled, his 'Hi' is I believe the equivalent in American. So saying he smiled and moved off down the plane to the cheap seats and his steamy rendez-vous.
I later learned from one of his G-men that he is given to wandering and chatting and generally mixing with the great un-washed. As if that wasn't enough upon our arrival in Hong Kong our paths all but crossed again as it seems we share the same tailor - Sam's, Tailor to Her Majesties Armed Forces. I'm not sure what Bill's fancies ran to but I settled on a midnight blue tropical worsted in wool and cashmere with a lilac half-lining and a brace of shirts. Nothing special, just something to keep me over until I got to Turnbull and Asser.
So me old chum as you can see it's all ticking along rather nicely. Summer is almost upon us and I find myself once more by the pool. A couple of weeks ago the little woman picked out a silver Mercedes convertible for the season so she's as happy as a sand boy. I am somewhat reluctant to be seen travelling in a car from the Bosch so I'm hard at work trying to locate the correct Aston Martin or equivalent.
I recall your last communication suggested you were Los Angeles bound. How was the old place? I understand they're having trouble locating enough 50ps for the meter, did you manage to help at all? It's symptomatic of the decline here I can tell you. They did away with democracy, they seem to be executing all and sundry and now the leccy's running out. What goes around...what?
Yours with eyebrow cocked and a jug of Pim's for the ladies,
S