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My old past habits with George Philpott I had given up, or put better, I had to give them up because in London I did not have a big enough budget at my disposal to support such lifestyle.
Then one day I got the shocking message that George Philpott had taken his own life. He had embezzled large sums of money and saw no way out. He was not only desperate, but without hope:
„Desperation is still bearable because it is a rebellion, a deed, but loss of hope is death“.
Carmen Sylva, a Rumanian queen, once said that. But George found no solace in the wisdom of others; he could not live with shame. A chapter was closed. There would be no further excursions to the Solent and relaxing sailing trips.
Saturday, 4th September
I had made no plans for the weekend. Normally I spent the weekends in the country in Kent or Essex with friends who had their houses there. We passed the time with clay pigeon shooting or I accompanied friends while they played golf. I did not play myself. Golf was still a sport reserved for an elite circle of people who had chosen that sport as a common hobby, pastime, or as an opportunity to make contacts. I couldn’t find a place for myself in that, even if it is one of the main free time occupations of Lloyd’s brokers. Yes, as a trial I had teed off with surprising success, but it bored me to walk from hole to hole, and I felt no proximity to nature. Golf courts were for me artificial, unreal oases embedded in a landscape criss-crossed by fences, the surrounds of London. Afterwards we usually went to a pub lunch and then in the evening to a local restaurant for dinner, where there was talk about the next business deals even in the presence of wives who meanwhile speak of other topics. A tiring and empty routine, with neither highs nor lows. Without the life-ordering components of work, without the colleagues in the firm, the overpopulated wine bars in the City that fell into a vacuum on the weekends, London was a soulless stony desert haunted by foreigners from all over the world, but not an anchoring place or a home for me. Nowhere I felt so alone as in this metropolis of millions, nowhere could one more deeply experience „tristesse“ in its purest form.
Gone were the day, when the yacht Hullabaloo had its anchorage at the River Hamble, when we had drunk Guinness, eaten, and gone sailing. The sea woke up memories and gave me tranquillity and strength. It was that form of relaxation that I had loved, and now it was the past. There was no other friend with whom I could share those experiences. George could not be replaced.
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