Summers in London seem to always feature that gritty diesel smell and taste in the mouth that is just more pronounced there than any other large European city. Forgetting the taste for a moment and checking my watch, I folded the copy of the Financial Times I had been reading, checked my watch again and dodged the black taxi’s as I crossed the street to the Oxford club for lunch.
My host, a graduate of the University, had learned I would be in town and graciously proposed we meet. My father had always maintained one must be prepared with coat and tie when travelling in Europe, lest one not be admitted to such a place as the Oxford Club. I am happy to report he was correct. There still are places other than a courtroom where attire counts.
Unexpectedly we were joined by several members of Her Majesties Government…
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