When we left Bots in the Marriott Hotel, he aimed the blame for his lethargy at fatigue rather than the whisky, though whichever of the two he suffered from, the cure was the same—the comfort of a bed for sleep. I had felt the same need. However, not always are our needs met and this was one such occasion, at least for me it was.
I lay on the bed trying my hardest not to think of Iraq and the Russian Colettes of this world, as well as the many different affairs nobody in London had been open about. As much as I was conscious of drifting in and out of that longed-for sleep, the degree of secrecy in London was keeping me awake. Without listing them all on paper, I tried to compartmentalise the main issues, which wasn’t conducive to sleep.
The least straightforward issue concerned Charles O
