Despite my earlier promise, I shall make just one exception - this in regard to our author's extramural interests. He no longer plays any game or sport. He has, however, developed a late & rather unexpected interest. When he discovered that my wife, an Irish girl, was secretary of the local Scottish Country Dance Association, nothing would do him but he must start taking lessons in the various sets - reels, strathspeys, hornpipes & so on. It soon became obvious however that, as well as the music & physical activity, he was greatly attracted by the thought of wearing highland gear: the kilt, the dirk, the sporran & all the rest of it. I tried to dissuade him. `For goodness sake,' I said, `have you any idea how this will go down with your numberless admirers ?' `Can't worry about them, buddy.' `Don't you care about them ? How this will look to them ? Don't you give one damn about the people that live - actually live each passing moment of their lives - through all these unforgettable characters you've created ? Only the other day, there was a chap from Australia making this very point.' `Well, that's pretty sad for them, buddy. Pass me that dagger.' `It's not a dagger, Jerome. It's a dirk.' `Well, whatever it is, pass it me.' And off the two of them went, himself & my little wife, arm & arm, leaving me to do the washing up. I sometimes wonder was I wise inviting him here. (I wish Steve hadn't brought up the Hemingway topic in this particular environment, but yes, there *has* been a problem with Ernest. A great deal of my time is taken up concealing the existence of one from the other. And I need hardly mention the drain on my own personal emotional reserves. Please don't mention it again, Steve.) Scottie B.