THE CLUB

It was best on rainy days when you could duck out of the vindictively cold, wet streets and take comfort in a bowl of pea soup before moving onto mains (usually calves liver) with a bottle of house red.

He hated the city but loved the club. It was an expensive type of membership, he supposed, belonging to a place he could re-create to some degree in his own bohemian country pile. Nevertheless, it was a good rendezvous for meetings with his publishers and clandestine affairs with books he needed to catch up on reading.

He often thought if space travel could be adapted to his particular sensibility then he would have a spaceship in the form of the club so he could be at his most relaxed whilst experiencing zero gravity. Naturally, he would insist on having some plush red furnishings and table lamps, not to mention historic portraits in gold gilded frames.

"Dessert sir?" the maitre'd asked in hushed tones, as subtle as could be.

"I fancy the lemon posset if there's one going."

"Certainly, sir."

Just saying the words lemon posset made the middle aged Christopher feel young again, as if he was back at his boarding school in Oxford and almost everything revolved around what was for pudding. In many ways it still did although he had found serious competition in both wine and women now vying for first place.

And yes, of course, he was the epitome of that cliche he had hoped he would never become, the old wine soaked writer who hid as far away from reality as possible with his pan-seared scallops and roasted cauliflower all the while pontificating on the sorts of things that would bear zero relevance to the average man, woman and child in the street.

"If I could have everyone enjoy the splendour of the club then I would by all means invite them in. But of course, then it would cease to be private any longer. Us delicate, creative souls need our privacy. The world is already surveilled enough."

Christopher had slightly lost track of exactly what he was saying to the gentlemen at the table next to him, who appeared to be new to the club. The writer was naturally suspicious of new members and felt the need to sound them out with a bit of conversational fencing before he was satisfied they wouldn't harm the rarifeid atmosphere of his safe place.

Watching the poor souls down on the street from his table window wrestling with upturned umbrellas and desperately trying to hail passing taxi cabs that soaked them to the bone with puddle water, Christopher didn't envy them one bit. In fact, he wanted to thank each and everyone of them for helping him measure his own private joy at being so ensconced in the comfort of the club. The crackling fire, the gentle sound of wine being poured into glasses and the rain spitting against the window - what could be more delightful than this?

Did it take the misery of others to highlight the joy of his existence in this present moment?

He was rather ashamed to admit it did.

At which point his lemon posset arrived.