Robert Hugill

“I’ve decided what you’re getting me for Christmas.” Mother had said this the other Sunday evening when Neil and I had dropped round for a cold supper, both of us having been busy working during the day. Neil had been at the studio, whilst I had had a rehearsal to attend—preparations for a Christmas concert featuring my music. Mother’s Christmas present often involved her dropping not insignificant hints, but this had been the first time she had been so direct. And as we learned, the co

“It’s such a shame that we aren’t to hear any of your music this afternoon.” The woman smiled up at me with the sort of sickly smile that said it all: she wasn’t in the least bit sad and rather revelled in my apparent discomfiture. I had always disliked her smarmy manner. She had been one of Yel and Bart’s closest friends, yet I had usually tried to avoid her. What was her name? Flinty, Finty, Minty, Mizi? I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) remember. Certainly she knew who I was. I’d been wool

Thanks, glad someone's counting!

Ta!

Earlier in the week, Neil had got a phone call whilst he was working. The guy left him a message. >Hello, this is Emmerich Kleisch speaking. I am a friend of Evan Dering. I understand that you seek an art tutor. It is possible that I may be of aid. I live in Winchester and I teach at the College. After Neil had played me the message, I had smiled at him and handed him a letter that had come in the day’s post. Short, to the point, and beautifully written using a real fountain p

Yep, Edwin is an old creep! I use < for phone and text to make it clear.

>Edwin offered Neil an allowance!? You could almost hear Mother screech without the phone, and her voice rose in pitch. “That’s what he said.” >Did he ask Neil if he wanted something like that? “Of course not. He said he’d considered commissioning more, but thought giving Neil space was better.” >’Space’. Oh, I see, love. So he’d work less for Gar. “It’s something they’ve talked about, but Neil can’t afford it.” >I should think not, love. The la

Regarding London clubs, membership is usually based on 'other criteria' though many are conventionally 'establishment'

“What’s this place for exactly?” “Uncle Edwin’s club?” I laughed. “As far as I can tell, it’s so that blokes who went to public school and Oxbridge can continue to meet each other in familiar surroundings. There’s a library, bar and dining room, plus rooms for out-of-town members.” “And it costs.” “I would imagine. These London clubs are mostly themed.” He grinned. “Like Star Trek and Man United?” “Daft thing. The Garrick Club’s for actors, I think there’s one for

“You remember Marjorie Boydell, love?” “Of course. How is she?” “Feeling a bit lost, poor love. Just her all on her own in that great big house.” “Still! Why doesn’t she get rid of it and move somewhere more convenient?” Mother sighed. “She’s stuck with all her father’s papers. I don’t know… It’s a way of hanging on to him, I suppose. With the papers gone, there is no excuse for her not to sell the house, accept that both Geoff and her father are gone, and move on.”

In Salzburg, on holiday the other week, we went to see Messiaen's St Francis of Assisi. An incredible evening in the theatre. All six hours plus of it, though there were two intervals of an hour each!

No, not the end but I do like symmetries in my stories!

“How was Charlie last night?” Neil had met Charlie for what was fast becoming their regular drink together. “Oh, he was in good form. Was nice about the show again.” He frowned. “He seems to really mean it.” “Course he should: it was a great show.” “Mmm?” “Did he go for those few days away with Marcin?” “Last week. He had a great time. Supposedly.” Neil gave a wry grin. “Meaning Charlie and Marcin…?” “Are back on.” My response was a snigger. “F

numpty was a great favourite expression of one of my work colleagues, back in the day when I worked in IT for a big UK media company.

Before Neil’s show there was one more thing I had to do. Or rather, that we had to do: buy Neil a couple of good but interesting (and affordable) shirts so that he had a selection to choose from over the weekend of the studio opening. I also felt that it would be nice for him to have interesting shirts rather than work shirts, and a couple of good ones. He agreed in theory, but I had been putting the event off mainly because shopping wasn’t something he enjoyed. However Mother appeared