asking them dopey questions, like, ‘What do you think is the purpose of life?’ or, ‘What sorts of thing do you find funny?’ or, ‘Do you think that intensity is a good thing?’ She asks me, she asks Mr Cosmic, the postman, the man at the door of Middle Earth, anyone. Then, at the end of a week or so, she compares the answers and thinks of the next question.
Sally is an Aquarian. She looks a bit like Mia Farrow before she cut her hair. (‘Every Man or Woman is a star,’ as Crowley observes.) Or maybe like Nico on the sleeve of The Velvet Underground and Nico . ( The Velvet Underground is my whale song.) She loves her freedom and does not want to get trapped in the channelled ways that straight people think in. Aquarian people like unusual things and they keep changing their ideas. This is her age. These are weird times – ‘The Season of the Witch’, as her oracle Donovan puts it.
The Lodge did not make a good impression on her. She grooves on Mr Cosmic though. They share a thing about Arthur and Guinivere. He thinks, like her, that Arthur and his knights will return and that millions now living will see the rebuilding of Camelot. I think she’s probably slept with Cosmic a couple of times. That’s cool.
Spent the afternoon bringing the diary up to date, while I watched my clothes spinning round in the launderette and nursed my cold. In the evening I dressed for dinner. I had not worn a suit since graduation. The knot of the tie is to me as the hangman’s noose – a punishment imposed by society. I made my way to the Gay Hussar in Soho. I was feeling pretty seedy and I was apprehensive that the demon-who-makes-me do-things-I-don’t-want-to might be accompanying me to the restaurant. The Gay Hussar is all red plush and dark lacquer with deep benches, the sort of place where a colonel in the Ruritanian army might meet his opera-singer mistress. I had never eaten in such a place before, but, according to Felton, there are many more expensive and prestigious restaurants in London. We are going to visit them all, working up the list gradually. Felton was already there sipping a glass of something green. I am not used to eating late, but, though my impatience must have been obvious, Felton insisted on doing a big winemanship number. I was there for a lesson, rather than a meal. He ordered a bottle of Montrachet and made me follow him, as he twirled the glass by the stem and peered and sniffed at the wine. Then we had to sip, making little dog’s arse movements of the lips. I hate sipping. Gulping is my normal pace. Felton had to reach across and stop me from draining the glass. A Montrachet is a full-bodied, dry, white Burgundy. It has a flowery bouquet and a kind of honeyed oak aftertaste. It is such a great white wine that I was supposed to faint or something, but it tasted like white wine and I drank it. Perhaps if I hadn’t got a cold I would have got more out of it. However, I have to memorise all this winemanship stuff. It is actually part of my training as a sorcerer.
‘So where does Sally think you are tonight?’ asked Felton, when he had finished banging on about the vineyards of the Beaune region.
‘She probably thinks that I’m in bed sick.’
Felton nodded, satisfied, and turned to the waiter and asked him to bring a bottle of Haut Brion claret, a 47 if possible, to our table, so that it could start breathing while we were slowly working our way through the Montrachet – I mean so slow, it was like getting one’s booze through a drip-feed. Then he started pointing out other people in the restaurant. There was an MP called Tom Driberg. And there was a writer, Angus Wilson. I was quite impressed at being in the same room as Wilson, until I remembered that the man who wrote The Outsider is called Colin Wilson, not Angus. I do not know who this Angus is. However, when Felton and the Master judge that I am ready, I am going to be introduced to all sorts of famous and influential people.
‘We
Sally is an Aquarian. She looks a bit like Mia Farrow before she cut her hair. (‘Every Man or Woman is a star,’ as Crowley observes.) Or maybe like Nico on the sleeve of The Velvet Underground and Nico . ( The Velvet Underground is my whale song.) She loves her freedom and does not want to get trapped in the channelled ways that straight people think in. Aquarian people like unusual things and they keep changing their ideas. This is her age. These are weird times – ‘The Season of the Witch’, as her oracle Donovan puts it.
The Lodge did not make a good impression on her. She grooves on Mr Cosmic though. They share a thing about Arthur and Guinivere. He thinks, like her, that Arthur and his knights will return and that millions now living will see the rebuilding of Camelot. I think she’s probably slept with Cosmic a couple of times. That’s cool.
Spent the afternoon bringing the diary up to date, while I watched my clothes spinning round in the launderette and nursed my cold. In the evening I dressed for dinner. I had not worn a suit since graduation. The knot of the tie is to me as the hangman’s noose – a punishment imposed by society. I made my way to the Gay Hussar in Soho. I was feeling pretty seedy and I was apprehensive that the demon-who-makes-me do-things-I-don’t-want-to might be accompanying me to the restaurant. The Gay Hussar is all red plush and dark lacquer with deep benches, the sort of place where a colonel in the Ruritanian army might meet his opera-singer mistress. I had never eaten in such a place before, but, according to Felton, there are many more expensive and prestigious restaurants in London. We are going to visit them all, working up the list gradually. Felton was already there sipping a glass of something green. I am not used to eating late, but, though my impatience must have been obvious, Felton insisted on doing a big winemanship number. I was there for a lesson, rather than a meal. He ordered a bottle of Montrachet and made me follow him, as he twirled the glass by the stem and peered and sniffed at the wine. Then we had to sip, making little dog’s arse movements of the lips. I hate sipping. Gulping is my normal pace. Felton had to reach across and stop me from draining the glass. A Montrachet is a full-bodied, dry, white Burgundy. It has a flowery bouquet and a kind of honeyed oak aftertaste. It is such a great white wine that I was supposed to faint or something, but it tasted like white wine and I drank it. Perhaps if I hadn’t got a cold I would have got more out of it. However, I have to memorise all this winemanship stuff. It is actually part of my training as a sorcerer.
‘So where does Sally think you are tonight?’ asked Felton, when he had finished banging on about the vineyards of the Beaune region.
‘She probably thinks that I’m in bed sick.’
Felton nodded, satisfied, and turned to the waiter and asked him to bring a bottle of Haut Brion claret, a 47 if possible, to our table, so that it could start breathing while we were slowly working our way through the Montrachet – I mean so slow, it was like getting one’s booze through a drip-feed. Then he started pointing out other people in the restaurant. There was an MP called Tom Driberg. And there was a writer, Angus Wilson. I was quite impressed at being in the same room as Wilson, until I remembered that the man who wrote The Outsider is called Colin Wilson, not Angus. I do not know who this Angus is. However, when Felton and the Master judge that I am ready, I am going to be introduced to all sorts of famous and influential people.
‘We
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