“Bless my cotton socks, if it isn’t his honour the Earl Harry Paterson of grand old Yorkshire Moors himself. Hopefully you’re not an apparition, old fruit, but you are in good spirits. How’s life with you then, sport? Still floating the good ship Isle of Jura, are we?”
He nodded at the decanter on the table, beside which I sat with a glass of my favourite golden nectar beside it.
“How the b****y hell are you? Seems a lifetime ago that we last met.” He hadn’t stopped.
It would appear I had drawn the short straw in the company I kept. My uninvited guest was Gerald Neil, owner of Crocketts, the famous London Mayfair gaming club, with many more attractions inside than gaming tables. Even though he had just arrived, he was showing the effects of some already consumed alcohol. I mentioned it
