Small world or what?!? (London)

When I was at university, I went to where Laura (a year above me) usually sat, to drag her off to tea (she studied all hours and never ate lunch, nibbling carrots instead at her library space).  An Oriental chap was sitting with her so he was invited to join us.  

He’d spoken to Laura because he was surprised that a white girl was reading a Chinese classic (紅樓夢 / Dream of The Red Chamber / Story of The Stone, published 1792).  

He turned out to be from Singapore, so the focus switched to him and me.  

He said he was actually on study leave to Sussex University but came to my library (School of Oriental and African Studies, SOAS) because of its reputation for its collection of Japanese books.  So, he wasn’t even from SOAS, which is another small-world fact.  

He said he usually lived in Japan and had been there for a while.  Which university in Japan, I asked.  Tōhoku 東北, he said.  Ah, I said, my uncle went to Tōhoku in the 60s on a scholarship for a year — might he know him.  

I gave his name: Tay Mui Kwang.  Man said, “If Tay Mui Kwang is your uncle, then what is Chng Nguan Kim to you?”  I said, “Oh, Tay Mui Kwang is actually my mum’s cousin.  Chng Nguan Kim is my mother’s brother, therefore a more direct uncle.”  Man said, “Well, Chng Nguan Kim’s wife and my wife are sisters.”  I said, “Ah, so your wife is Aunty Hiang!  I’d heard about the two of you since a child: you and Aunty Hiang being perpetual students, going for one degree after another in Japan, staying on and on for years and years.”

Now, what are the odds of meeting someone I’d heard about since the late 50s, then meeting him in London in 1979, and through Laura too, therefore indirectly, therefore could’ve missed him if I’d not gone to get Laura to go for tea at that moment...  He wasn't even based at SOAS but Sussex, and only came up to London to use our library.

(London, 1979)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 09 (Thailand)

Mr. Weys told me this story himself. 

He managed to marry his Thai sweetheart.  Not sure how, after the “beware of these dodgy foreigners” letter from her father (see blog In memory of Mr. George Weys: 08).

On their way to Japan via Taiwan for his sabbatical, they decided to stop by in Bangkok for the new son-in-law to pay his respects to her parents.

The mother received them in the front living room, but the father remained in his room at the back of the house.  Eventually, Mr. Weys went to that room to present himself.  The father shook his hand, which Mr. Weys took to be acceptance of him as a new member of the family.

During their stay, the mother-in-law assigned a minder to go everywhere with Mr. Weys whenever he wanted to go out and explore.  This was because he couldn’t speak any Thai, didn’t know his way around and, worse, might get cheated when shopping.

Mr. Weys found this a bit too restrictive for his liking so, one day, he left the house much earlier than usual to give the minder the slip.

All day, he wandered around the streets, the markets and the little shops, making purchases here and there.  He thoroughly enjoyed himself and felt very pleased about how clever he’d been.

At the end of the day, as soon as he stepped into the house upon his return, his mother-in-law asked, 

“So, did that Thai silk shirt stall at the corner of xx street and yy street agree to the price you offered?”, 

“Did you bargain the price of that pretty pair of sandals down to half of what they’d started with?”, 

“I hope you didn’t pay the outrageous price of zz baht that the jade stallholder had asked for!”, etc.

The minder had been following at a discreet distance, noting down all his movements, and got back home before him, reporting everything to the mother-in-law!

(Bangkok, early 1950s)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 08 (London)

Mr. Weys told me this story himself.

He’d met his Thai wife in the SOAS Junior Common Room.

When he decided that he’d like to marry her, Mr. Weys, being old school, wrote to her father in Bangkok to ask for her hand in marriage.

He waited.  No reply.  He waited further.  Still no reply.

Mrs. Weys, however, did receive a letter from her father, warning her to “watch out for these dodgy foreigners”.

For those unfamiliar with British English:

dodgy: (British, informal) dishonest, unreliable; potentially dangerous; of low quality

(London, early 1950s)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 07 (Taiwan)

Mr. Weys told me this story himself.

He had spent some time in Taiwan during the early 1950s, on his way to Japan.  

In those days, people in Taiwan were rather hostile to the idea of Oriental women mixing with Occidental men.  

When I worked there from 1975 to 1976, I got a lot of abuse: sometimes outright / verbally to my face, often as a side comment, and certainly in the looks and treatment I got.  I was working for Conoco, an American oil company, so I mingled with the expat community: people who worked with KLM, Hoechst, Schlumberger, just to name three off the top of my head.  

I’d be walking along with my 6’ 6” (=1.98m) white American boss, heading for the coffee house, socially distanced, late morning in broad daylight, no tight-fitting and/or low-cut dress, but people would still glare and then carefully time and position their spitting to land a few inches behind me, right on the spot where my foot had just been a second previously.  (I was lucky they were so considerate.  It would’ve been more unpleasant if they’d gone for the foot itself, or my face.) 

If I was with a white couple, I couldn’t possibly be a “bar girl” given that the wife was present, so I’d get treated like a maid — with disdain or be blanked.

It was this kind of environment that Mrs. Weys, Thai-born and therefore Oriental looking, found herself in when she and Mr. Weys went on their daily journeys to their Mandarin classes.  

In the end, she was so riled by the staring and the animosity that they had to take separate buses to their Mandarin classes.

(Taiwan, early 1950s)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 06 (London)

The SOAS Chinese Section had a tradition of throwing a farewell party for the final year students every year after their final exams were over— but before the results.

The lecturers would take turns in hosting another one at home.

At the departmental party, I found myself standing next to Mr. Weys.  He asked if I was feeling relieved now that the exams were over.  I said, “No, I’m actually terribly worried.  The Japanese unseen-text paper was a killer: one passage was on Buddhism, one was on philosophy, one was on literature.  I was guessing like mad, and changing and re-changing my mind.  The Tippex [whiting-out liquid] was so thick it got too lumpy to write on the same spot, I had to write above or below!”

In those days, we didn’t do modules with tests at regular intervals spread out over the year, every year.  We had one end-of-first-year exam, to show that we could carry on with the subject for the rest of the course (the next three years in my case).  Once we passed that first-year exam, we would carry on exam-free until Year 4. 

The condition was that we had to pass every single category:  Major, Minor, Special Subject.  If you failed any of the three categories, even if by only one mark, you wouldn't get your degree.  I think this was to stop students focusing on their strong category/categories and letting their good marks in those categories pull up the final overall mark.  That would make sense for an all-rounder education.  It was this proviso that was making me so nervous after that Japanese unseen-text paper with the Buddhism, Philosophy and Literature passages.

Mr. Weys excused himself and left the party room.  A few minutes later, he returned, “I’ve just gone to the departmental office and looked in my pigeon hole, in case Professor O’Neill, who’s the first marker, has done his marking and passed it on to me, the second marker.  He has, and I’ve had a quick look at your script.  According to Professor O’Neill’s marking, you’re OK.  So, nothing to worry about.”  I was able to enjoy the rest of the party.  Bless him.

A week later, we went to the second party hosted by Dr. Paul Thompson at his house.  When Mr. Weys arrived, he came and sat next to me in the garden, “You know you were so worried about your Japanese Unseen paper, and I told you that you were OK, according to Professor O’Neill’s first marking?  Well, I’ve since had a closer look at it, and I’m happy to tell you that you’re more than OK.”

(London, 1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 05 (London)

Five years later, I was back at SOAS, this time as staff, working on two Chinese computer research projects: Speech Recognition and Speech Synthesis, and Computer-Aided Language Learning (CALL).

The Chinese Section had always frequented the SOAS bar — students AND lecturers.  Students from the Japanese Section would join us, complaining that their lecturers were so boring, never going to the bar.

During one of these bar sessions, with Mr. Weys present as well, I was reminiscing about the old days, and mentioned the vase and results incident, saying, “It surprises me to this day how I managed to give you a hug and not break any of your ribs.”  

Mr. Weys looked at me rather reproachfully, “And you’ve never repeated it since.”

(London, 1986)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 04 (London)

Mrs. Liu was retiring after my final year.  My classmates were all going away after the exams, so I was tasked with buying her retirement present.  I chose an upright blue and white vase (about 8 inches tall):  the blue and white combination looks Chinese; it can be used as a vase for cut flowers or Chinese calligraphy brushes.

Went in to SOAS to present it to Mrs. Liu, hugging the wrapped-up vase to keep it safe.  It was around noon.

Took the lift up to the third floor, where the Chinese Section was.  Just as I was stepping out of the lift, Mr. Weys walked past.  

He said: “Ah, you must’ve heard then?”

Me, totally baffled: “Heard what?”

Mr. Weys: “Today’s when the results are published.  I’ve just come from the exam board meeting.  I thought that’s why you’re here —to find out about your results.”

I felt the blood drain from my whole body.  If I’d known the results would be out, I’d have stayed away for sure, such is the coward that I am.

Mr. Weys continued: “Since you’re here, I’ll tell you now then.”

When he told me what I’d got, I burst into tears, and put my arms around him.  To this day, I still don’t know how I managed to hug Mr. Weys and not drop the vase.  Even more surprisingly, how I managed not to break his ribs with the vase between us.

He saw that I was shaking too: “Oh dear, I think you’re in need of a sherry.”

He led me to his (then-Acting Departmental Head) office, where he produced a bottle of sherry.  (So, teachers in those days kept a bottle in their office then…!). The first glass was gulped down in one go — my explanation is that sherry glasses/portions are rather small…. 

Mr. Weys saw that I was still dazed, “I think you need another one.”  This was noon!

(London, 1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 03 (London)

Mr. Weys taught classical Chinese at SOAS.

The routine was:  each student would get called by name, then start reading aloud one line, then translate.

During the reading aloud, students would often give the wrong half of a two-character compound if only one of the characters was presented in the text.  For example, 邀 yāo (from the compound 邀請 / 邀请 yāoqǐng / “invite invite”) would get read as qǐng (請 / 请).

Mr. Weys would say, “The other one.”

The first time he did this, we’d be a bit confused, not knowing what he meant.  After a couple more times, we’d twig, and choose the other sound of the compound.

I have since been applying this in my teaching (yes, students all make the same mistakes, whichever generation they might be), and say, “The other one.”

When students produce garbled renditions and I give them a coherent one, they’re often surprised and ask, “How did you know that was what I meant / wanted to say?!” 

My reply: “You are all like my babies.  A mummy can decode all the goo-goo ga-ga’s of her baby.”  This was said with Mr. Weys in mind:  his knowing that when the student gives the wrong sound, s/he really means “the other one”.

(London, 1978–1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 02 (London)

Being old school, Mr. Weys had impeccable manners.

Even when he was walking on the pavement with his students, it was always Mr. Weys the gentleman first, not Mr. Weys the teacher.  (See also The swing doors.)

One day, Laura and I were walking with Mr. Weys from SOAS at Russell Square to Chinatown in Soho for a meal.  The route entailed a lot of turning left/right around corners when one road joined another.  Mr. Weys would dart to the outside on every single occasion, making sure that each time he was on the outside of the two ladies, even though he was the teacher.

(London, 1978–1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 01 (London)

 

I first met Mr. Weys when I turned up at the interview for getting into SOAS to do my first degree.

There were two interviewers: Dr. David Pollard and Mr. George Weys.  They looked like a “good cop / bad cop” team, with Pollard’s malleable face and mouth in a perpetual smile, whilst Mr. Weys wore a stern near-frown, yet non-committal, look.  

(I learned some five years later that he was “diffident” — his own word — when he told me why he wouldn’t join the list of 96 consultants for the coffee table book that went with the Channel Four TV documentary series on China, The Heart of The Dragon.  Among other reasons.) 

The interview was conducted in Mr. Weys’s office.

Dr. Pollard did all the asking, “Why have you applied to SOAS?”, “Why for this course?”, etc., and smiled or even laughed at my answers.  

Mr. Weys sat there, looking at me intently — and sternly, not saying a word.

When Dr. Pollard had worked his way through his list, he asked Mr. Weys if he had any questions to put to me.

Mr. Weys said, “I know you don’t need to do your Special Subject until Year 3, but do you know now what you’d like to do for your Special Subject?”

I said without hesitation, “Oh yes!  Japanese!!”  His eyes lit up, and he broke into a smile.  

I then noticed that the bookshelves behind him were filled with Japanese books.  

I’d said the right thing!  I’d won this stern man over.

(London, 1978)

In memory of Mr. T'ung Ping-cheng 佟秉正 (London)

I have just heard this week about the demise of Mr. T’ung Ping-cheng 佟秉正.  

This blog is in his memory.

Mr. T’ung was my tutor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) and, later, my first speaker for the Speech Recognition and Speech Synthesis project.  It was one of two Chinese computer research projects at SOAS that I was working on in the second half of the 1980s.  We used his voice for the recordings for analysis and, ultimately, recognition and synthesis.  

The distance from the mouth to the microphone had to be a consistent distance, for the sound quality.  To this end, I managed to procure a dentist’s chair from the School of Dentistry near UCL (University College London), and pushed it all the way from there to SOAS, with the help of a tiny porter, Mauritian Indian Steve.  The dentist’s chair has a head rest, which would ensure that the head would be fixed and not tilt back during the recording.  

Each time, I’d set up the microphone, and measure the distance.  The first time I did this, I explained to Mr. T’ung why we had to do it.

He said, “How can it be a consistent distance?  If I say 猪 zhū [a rounded, pursed-lip sound], my mouth will be 1cm closer to the microphone.  If I say 西 xī [a peeled-back-lip sound], my mouth will be 0.5cm further back.”

Rest in peace, dear Mr. T’ung.  You will live forever in our collective memory.  We will miss you and your sense of humour very much.

(London, 1985 and 2020)

Clever parenting (UK)

In the ‘70s, home students doing university courses could get a government grant which covered their fees and all living expenses.

Ben, two years below me at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London), was living at his parents’.  His mother told him he’d have to pay for his room and board, since he got the money for it from the government.  He thought at the time that his mother was a bit heartless, but paid up all the same.

Four years later, when he graduated, the mother handed him a bank account passbook.  She’d been depositing the money over the years on his behalf.

(UK, late 1970s)

Unconscious pun (London)

My beloved tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, told me this:

A props manager working on a play that featured cannibals in the story line had to find scalps to go on display.  

One of the publicity claims of the department store Harrods at the time was that you could find anything in their store, and if not, they’d source it for you.  So, the props manager rang them up.  

In those days, one had to go through the switchboard operator to get to the right department / person.  He explained to the switchboard operator what he wanted.

At the end of it, the operator said, without realising her unconscious pun (they have to handle so many calls each day that they don’t usually process more than the purely superficial), “OK, I’ll put you through to the Head Buyer.”

(London, 1970s)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Faux pas in Chinese (Taiwan)

My beloved tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson* (d. 2007), was in Taiwan in 1952, three years after the Nationalists’ retreat from mainland China to Taiwan.  The Americans, Taiwan’s ally at the time, had donated, among other things, powdered milk in tins with labels stating clearly: “A gift of the American people.  Not to be re-sold”, which was, of course, totally flouted. 

An American chap, who was in Taiwan at the same time as Paul Thompson and could speak some Chinese, went off one day to buy one of these tins of powdered milk.  His Taiwanese contacts had all told him not to forget to add the 牛 niú / “cow” bit when referring to drinking milk, because in Chinese, 奶 nǎi / “milk” used on its own tends to mean “breast milk” as 奶 nǎi is also used to refer to the breasts of a woman (e.g., 奶罩 nǎizhào / "breast mask" = brassiere).  So, for dairy milk, one has to say 牛奶 niú nǎi / “cow milk”.  Powdered milk is 奶粉 nǎi fěn / “milk powder”, with 粉 fěn / “powder” being in the third tone. 

When he got to the shop, he remembered the 牛 niú / “cow” bit and forgot the 奶 nǎi / “milk” bit.  Then, he mis-pronounced the third tone of “powder” as a fourth tone, one of the characters for which is 粪 fèn / “excrement”.  

So he ended up asking the shopkeeper for a tin of 牛粪 niú fèn / “cow dung”!

This same unfortunate gentleman went to a banquet where a young lady was assigned to look after the honourable guest.  In those days (1952), not that many people in Taiwan could speak English, and since the American could speak some Chinese, their conversation was conducted in Chinese.

The young lady offered him some tea, to which he said no.  She then offered him some beer, to which he said no as well.  She came up with more offers, to all of which he said no.  She then asked what he would like.  

Of all the times to get the verb wrong, this poor chap had to choose that moment to do it and on “milk” of all the nouns to boot.  He used 吃 chī / “to eat” instead of 喝 hē / “to drink”.  The one liquid one can indeed 吃 chī / “to eat” in Mandarin Chinese is milk, but only in a special usage: 吃奶 / “eat milk” = (said of a baby) to suck the breast.  

Second mistake: of all occasions, he had to go and add “your” on this one.  The man presumably only wanted to try the Taiwanese kind of milk, Americans being regular milk drinkers, so he added “your” to make it clear he wanted to try their kind of milk.

Third mistake: he used the singular “your” (你的 nǐ de) in Chinese, instead of the plural “your” (你们的 nǐmen de) (for referring to Taiwan).

So what he ended up saying to the young lady, when she asked him what he would like after all, was:  “我要吃你的奶。 wǒ yào chī nǐ de nǎi / “I want to eat your[singular] milk”)”

The young lady went bright red, rushed off, and never came back.  Lucky for the American he didn’t get a slap in the face.

(Taiwan 1952)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Chinese etiquette: modesty

Chinese etiquette dictates that one should downgrade one’s own abilities, which extends to those of one’s children.  For example, if someone were to praise your daughter for her good looks, you’d say, “Oh no, my daughter’s very ugly.”  If someone were to say your child’s very clever, you’d say, “Oh no, I have a very stupid child.”  The child would not suffer any damage to the ego or self-confidence, because s/he just knew grown-ups played this superficial game to satisfy the rules of social etiquette.

Dr. Sarah Allan, now a professor in California, was an American lecturer at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) in the 80s and a Western expert on Chinese oracle bone script.  She had written a book or two on the subject before getting her next book translated into Chinese as well.

As is the convention with academic writing, reference would be made to other people’s works/theories on the subject, including the writer’s own previous ones, if any, followed by the source.  So, if the writer was Mary Smith, she’d refer to Robert Jones’s work as “see Robert Jones, TITLE, Chapter x, p.xx”, and to her own as “see Mary Smith, TITLE, Chapter x, p.xx”, in the same neutral tone of voice.  

However, the Chinese translation had to observe the Chinese conventions, including the modest way of referring to anything related to oneself.  I was typesetting the translation of Sarah Allan’s book and noticed that the neutral version in her English copy (“see Sarah Allan, TITLE, Chapter x, p.xx”) came out in the Chinese translation as: “see clumsy work, TITLE, Chapter x, p.xx”, with the “clumsy work” being immediately obvious as being the speaker’s/writer’s own.  She was tickled pink about this and came to my office to have a good giggle about it.

(拙作 zhuōzuò / “clumsy work”)

(London 1989)

Language usage: oblique reference

In the English language, there is a particular style of referring to oneself in the third person (e.g., “Come and let Aunty take a look at you”), when speaking to the younger generation, especially young children.  

It is done in Chinese too, but more commonly by the younger generation when addressing seniors (in status/age), as it’s a bit too direct even to use nín 您 (respectful “you”), never mind the plain form nǐ 你 (“you”).  

So, when enquiring after the teacher’s health, one could say, 

老师，您好吗
lǎoshī, nín hǎo ma
 “teacher [respectful form]you good question-particle” 
= Are you well, Teacher? (“Teacher” being the title here)

But one also says, just using lǎoshī (“teacher”) to take the place of nín (respectful “you”): 

老师好吗
lǎoshī hǎo ma
“teacher good question-particle” 
= Is Teacher well?

My ex-tutor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Mr T’ung Ping-cheng 佟秉正, got home from work one day and found that he’d forgotten his house key, so he rang the bell.  

His son asked, in English, from the other side of the door, “Who is it?”  

Mr T’ung answered, “我 (wǒ, I/me).”  

His son opened the door and instead of saying, “爸爸好 bàba hǎo / Hello, Father”, he said, “我好 wǒ hǎo / Hello, me.”


Note: The standard, common way of greeting people is “nǐ hǎo (‘you good’)”, which works for all levels of formality and status of the other party, from “How do you do” to “Hello” to “Hi”.

The absent-minded professor (London)

The first story (which took place a few decades ago) was told by another professor at the memorial service of Professor Angus Charles Graham, SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies).  

It was Professor Graham’s turn to look after baby Dawn and he went to a local library, being the bookish person he was.  He then remembered that his sister-in-law lived nearby, so he dropped in on her to say hello.  After they’d got the salutations out of the way and were nicely settling down to their cuppa and cake, she asked what he was doing in the area.  He cried out, “Dawn!!  Oh, Dawn!!  I’ve forgotten about Dawn!” and rushed off back to the library, where Dawn was still in her pram, fast asleep and quite unaware of her temporary abandonment.  I wouldn’t be surprised if, had he not popped in to see his sister-in-law, he’d gone all the way home without Dawn and not even noticed until Mrs. Graham asked about the baby’s whereabouts.  

In 1979/80, Ben, a student a couple of years below me, reported turning up for an appointment with him, knocking on his office door repeatedly without any response.  Then, as he was about to turn away, Ben heard some rustling behind the door, so he knocked again, loudly this time, and heard a startled grunt from the other side.  When Ben opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of a room completely fogged up and Professor Graham a dim apparition in the midst of it.  The great man himself looked rather surprised by Ben’s presence and asked him what he wanted.  He’d completely forgotten about the appointment, and had been sitting there, working on some article on classical Chinese grammar or philosophy, or some translation of ancient Chinese poetry, happily puffing away at his pipe in total oblivion of time and the outside world.

(London, early 1980s)


Update 021211:  My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson (d. 2007), told me this anecdote about Professor Angus Charles Graham.  The elbows of his jumper had worn through, so his wife sewed two patches on.  When he next put on his jumper, he did remember that there were two holes in the elbows — but didn't notice the new elbow patches — and turned the jumper round, so that the patches were now on top.  And he wore two new holes in the elbows, leaving the patches quite intact.

(London, late 1970s)


Paul Thompson's obituary:  https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

Spoonerism: Shandy the dog (London)

My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, had a Japanese academic come to stay for a few weeks.  One day he came home to find the visitor issuing the following command to the family dog Shandy:  “Sandy, shit!  Sandy, shit!”

(London, mid-1980s)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

The swing doors (London)

I had a recurring problem with my classical Chinese teacher, Mr. George Weys (d. 2019), within my first few weeks (already!) at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), until we eventually — and reluctantly — arrived at a compromise for the sake of the bystanders. 

Whenever we happened to arrive at the same time at a set of swing doors en route to the classroom for our lessons, I’d push open my half to let him through first, because he was my teacher, older and male (in that order, note!). 

As a European gentleman of a certain generational upbringing, he’d always walk on the outside of the pavement, which made it awkward whenever we turned corners as he’d keep switching sides, sometimes almost colliding with me in his haste to be on the correct side.

At the swing doors, he’d hold his half of the swing doors open for me to go through before him, on the Ladies First principle.  

As we deferred and haggled, a long queue would build up behind us.  

In the end, we had to come to a compromise:  go through the swing doors together.

(London, 1978)

See also Skiving off skiing:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/skiving-off-skiing.html 

The diary entry (London)

Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson, my supervisor on the Chinese computer research projects[1] at SOAS, came into my office one day with an embarrassed look on his face.  “How do I tell people I have a new PhD student called Randy* and keep a straight face?”

As his calls were re-routed to me if he wasn’t in his office, I’d take messages and agree to tentative appointments on his behalf, then check them against his diary.  One day, we were doing this when he opened his diary, and there was an entry for Monday that said, in his handwriting, “Randy* at 10am.”

(London 1988)

*Those who don't understand the meaning of the British usage of the word "randy", please look up a dictionary, as I'm a bit embarrassed to gloss it.

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[1] See my other entry Process aborted.