Not the Club, but near the Club.
Yesterday I had an unusual day in that I worked according to British Summer Time, not–um–Newfoundland Time. That is, I started at my own 9 AM and I knocked off at 5 PM instead of starting at British noon and stopping at 8 or 8:30 PM. Benedict Ambrose and I had been asked out to supper at our host’s club, so I got permission to do this. For once I took a proper lunch break, the kind during which you get caught up on correspondence and go to the post office. As I walked home, I felt a frisson of novelty. Look at me on the High Street after noon on a work day! Wild!
I was rather rushed at 5 PM, though. I threw on a decent dress and the one pair of comfortable shoes that wouldn’t swear too badly at it and followed B.A. out the door (in the bright sunshine!) to the bus stop. However, we arrived at the elegant Georgian address two minutes before we said we would, so all was well. No sooner had the receptionist, sitting behind glass (or plastic) in the hallway, informed us that our host was there already than he appeared. We went through the usual members’-club warren of rooms to a staircase and climbed up to the dining-room.