...AND A ROSE IN HIS LAPEL

Greetings, finally, from London!

I am writing from the hotel bar--standing, alas, due to lack of seats. It is after eleven and I...

"In my hat mosquitos are small. This is the only true cheers I can offer".

"The boat of love became smithereens, falling on the rock of life".

...Pardon. I was interrupted by the musings of an intoxicated Greek art dealer with a rose in his lapel. He insisted on writing in my notebook. He left two blondes at the bar to come over and invite me to dinner.

Worry not, lover. I declined. He does not seem unhappy to be back in the embrace of his blondes.

As I was writing, I set off at 10:45 in search of an open pub and was disappointed. Undaunted, I had a happy wander through the cobblestone alleyways and over-lit thoroughfares of posh after-hours London. This city, I have discovered, is a lot like New York. It is older, of course, and bigger. It has more English people. But otherwise...

My hotel (Claridge's) is so thoroughly Deco, it could be a movie set. It is all black and white and lighting fixtures and 20's decadence. My boss's suite looks like it could have been a room in the Titanic. It is crowded in the bar, as I said, filled with people of varying wealth and beauty. I polish off my cocktail ("The Flapper"--how could I resist?) sucking down the strawberry garnish and I remember that England never had a prohibition.

Rehearsals for my boss's movie begin tomorrow. I have no idea what my day will be like. I'm sure there will be plenty of starch, and taxis, and tea. And dinner with my friend Vicki who is, for those who know her, a wonderful, attentive hostess. She may or may not be carrying a sizable candle for my movie star boss.

Ah, Vick. Never one to heed danger signs.

Someone just bought me another "Flapper". Cheers!