Clement popped by for tea to meet Clive. Alluding to the ceaseless storm clouds of recession that just refuse to budge, his provocative first words were “I’m so sorry, things must be so awful for you in England” barely concealing his ill-judged glee with fake concern. Predictably, Clive’s hackles rose like an angry porcupine and a prickly exchange of political, social and economic views ensued. I’m afraid it became rather heated. Clive gave firm assurances that he wasn’t queuing up at the local Sally Army soup kitchen just yet.
After an indecently brief stopover, my cherished Clive departed with happy promises to return. He left us sad and melancholy.