It is as I suspected. I have left my memoirs back in Britain. In the madness of moving, several boxes were misplaced, one of which included my hand-written copy of Conversations with Speyer, only half of which has been typed up onto the computer. This is not a tragedy, but as readers of the introduction will appreciate, it is rather ironic. Hopefully I can persuade Jean-Pierre Sertin to leave his shady corner at The Crippled Bee one afternoon and steal over to my house to retrieve the guilty boxes. Till then, we are stranded at the end of Chapter Six, Part Three.
In other news I have, as you can probably surmise, officially left the country. Once an Old Englander, I can now claim to be a New Englander. This wholesale relocation ought to have brought with it a torrent of new impressions, ideas and anecdotes. In one sense it has. Yet it has also brought with it a certain mental numbness. Or to put it another way: it has worn me down. I have been stimulated, yes, but the fruits of this stimulation have yet to ripen.
When they do so, suffice it to say that you, my dear readers, will be first in line to take a bite from the juicy peaches of my new found wisdom.