I have rubbed shoulders with a few notables. I have found myself within arms' length of the Queen. I have even sat three rows behind Princess Diana at the theatre. But last night was something new.
We went to a charming and quite intimate evening of poetry. The event took place at the National Portrait Gallery, in a pretty auditorium. The poetry had been chosen by the daughter of a painter who died recently who, it appeared, had loved poetry. The poems chosen included his favourites and each was read out - beautifully - by a well-known poet.
The choice included Byron, Coleridge, Cafavy, Edward Lear and Auden, among others, and then there was one by the 17th Earl of Rochester called The face of Sodom - Actus Secundus.
There was a problem because the Archbishop of Canterbury, for it was he, was sitting in front of us. The reader hesitated, alluded to the august presence in the audience but continued. It is a very funny poem, about as explicit as it gets but I don't think the Archbishop turned a hair. As for me, well I could drop his name in the odd place, couldn't I?
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