The date, however, was very nice. Tall, handsome, interesting, beautiful hands, Jewish, paid for supper, drove me home. A success, I'd say. Had it not been for the fact that when I walked into Galicia, swollen as usual with professionally sour waiters, old square Spanish men with prune faces and lithping accents, I found my friend Nel and her husband Tom propping up the bar who insisted on coming and saying a loud jocular hello, looking over the poor chap as though they were my parents, and grinning widely.
It wasn't quite as bad as when I turned up at the hotel where Worcester and I had arranged to meet and forgot his surname as I tried to check into the room, but when the time came to make the introductions my mind went blank and I called him Gordon.
Sadly his name is Geoffrey.
