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but definitely not one to be shirked (I earlier referred to Mr Mallard, whose sound
advice, though not said in so many words, was that almost every challenge, once
faced, could be overcome; he was not only referring to climbing a rope without the
assistance of one’s feet). I also remembered that I had a few months earlier heard
Martin Luther King’s ‘I had a dream’ speech, which, Churchill notwithstanding,
I thought the greatest peroration that I had ever heard, recorded or otherwise.
Therefore, I thought that in the absence of a joke, which I did not have to hand,
a short, deliberately delivered and simple message would serve me best. I was
emboldened by the midshipman whom I had to follow; he did not set a high bar.
And indeed, I was fortunate; I went on a bit too long, but this I realised when
the buns being hurled had become ill-aimed spoons; I could see knives soon
becoming the missiles of choice. Therefore, I sat down (there was no dais, my
perch being atop my chair), not a moment too soon. My companions, who had
thrust this upon me, seemed very pleased; again, an accolade much appreciated.

Back in Warsash, our education proceeded with a visit to Winchester Assizes.
This was the sort of ‘liberal arts’ that I had sought. Mother had long been interested
in the Law generally, but I had had little experience of it in operation, though we
had discussed it frequently with respect to some of the great advocates of the day,
including Norman Birkett (who physically resembled her father) and Sir Hartley
Shawcross, the British Prosecutor at the Nuremberg Tribunal. One day at the
Assizes hardly provides one with insight into the process, but after watching a
parade of poor souls who seemed to want little more than adjournments, and
counsel whose eloquence seemed little better than mine, I realised that the law
was not very magical once one knew what one was about. Indeed, thinking
about it later, I realised that what I had witnessed was not much different from
the descriptions of the courtroom in ‘Pickwick Papers’ (I had yet to read ‘Bleak
House’). What I saw seemed little different from the processes of Dickens’ time.

The next day, however, important matters again began to obtrude; I received
a letter from Carole that, not unexpectedly, sort of sat on the fence. I noted, “I
don’t seem to be getting anywhere and I don’t know how to get anywhere,” but,
again, young lust does not easily give up the forlorn chase. By coincidence, the
next day I received one from Heidi, which I note I referred to as ‘marvellous’ and
with which my literary style would be ‘stretched’ – and this from a girl whose first
language was German! So, as a relief from all these stresses, one of the co-owners
of The Tank (Don McGill, a very good fellow) and I decided the next Sunday
to drive to Brighton and visit Anne, whom, I discovered, had an American girl
staying with her. We drove there (although it seems now to be a very straight
coastal road, at that time it was an obstacle course; the journey lasted over two
hours. Now it would last less than half that time) and drank coffee. But I could see
the relationship hitting the rocks very soon! It did; I never saw her again.

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