'Great place, this,' said Stellings, sitting down. 'They have Puligny-Montrachet for ten quid a bottle. When it changed hands five years ago, they forgot to update the wine list. You often find great deals in ethnic restaurants.'

'I've heard of Montrachet. It's famous, isn't it?'

'Not Mon-trash-ay, Groucho. The "t" is silent. Think of it like Mont Blanc. Mont Rachet.'

'I've only heard it said the other way.'

'A common error. In both senses. I'm having Chicken Madras.'

I didn't mind Stellings correcting my p.r.o.nunciation. Fine wines was not an area Mug Benson took us into during preparation for O-level oral, though come to think of it, he did provide that natty phrase angoisse des gares angoisse des gares. Perhaps it was his translation that stuck in my mind: 'It's that moment when your parents put you on the train at the age of eight and as you puff out of the station you think that you might never see them again.'

Stellings poured the wine, whatever it was called, and banged on euphorically. He seemed to be high on something. 'Things are changing, Mike. Faster than they've ever changed in our lives. Take Gorbachev, for instance. I think he's going to bring the Cold War to an end.'

'But he's a KGB man, isn't he? Andropov's protege?'

'Yes, but he's seen the writing on the wall. Do you know how many heart clinics there are in Moscow? One. It's on the eighth floor of an old building. And there's no lift. Do you know what the most common form of birth control is in the Soviet Union?'

'No.'

'Abortion. The average Soviet woman has six abortions in her life. It's cheaper than the Pill. Gorby knows they have to have more money. They have to open up to trade.'

'I feel a bit nostalgic at the thought of that era coming to an end,' I said. 'I grew up expecting to die in a nuclear war.'

'Me too. For the first time in my life, I don't think it's going to happen. The fax machine is also partly responsible. And the proliferation of telephones. You can only run a totalitarian society if you keep your citizens in the dark. But the means of information have now overrun their defences. Your average Joe in Irkutsk knows about what's on offer in the West. He wants colour television, Coca-Cola, Scotch whisky and a choice of candidates. Plus if they don't make more money they won't even be able to manufacture tanks.'

Lunch with Stellings brought home to me how little the world had changed in the 30-plus years I'd lived in it. It seemed to me that the divide between West and East was exactly as it had been since 1946, but more deeply entrenched. The Terrors and Gulags and invasions, and all the lies and oppression needed to deny or enforce them, had only made it more difficult for the Eastern Bloc to compromise. They reminded me a little of the police psychologists in the Sutcliffe case. The more you're challenged, the more rigidly you a.s.sert your beliefs. You have nothing to lose because without your beliefs you're nothing anyway: they make you what you are. It's s.h.i.t or bust.

I thought Stellings was mad to think that the Cold War could just come to an end snap your fingers and it's over. Say what you like about totalitarian communism, it's been in Darwinian terms quite a 'successful' organism. Because it's a closed system, it's to some extent immune to reasoned criticism. Like Christianity or Freudianism, its core beliefs are self-verifying. This may make it 'unscientific', but it also makes it formidable.

Future generations may be surprised to know that growing up in a world that you expected to explode at any time was not as frightening as it sounds. But in order to manage the background fear, you had to put it to one side of your mind. And by making that manoeuvre you tacitly admitted that you had with whatever reservations accepted the status quo. I found the prospect of it all changing, as outlined by Stellings over a second bottle of Puligny-Montrachet, rather unnerving. A free world? How on earth would the Russkies manage that? No imminent Armageddon? How were any of us meant to live with that that?

'And apartheid,' I said. 'I suppose you're going to tell me that'll soon be all over, too.'

'Shouldn't wonder,' said Stellings, sticking a shard of poppadom into the mint sauce.

'You mean Botha's just going to say, Sorry, Kaffirs, it's all been a big mistake. Let's have elections. And while I'm at it, Mandela can come out of prison. For a start, all the Nelson Mandela student union bars in Britain would have to rename themselves.'

'I promise you it'll happen within ten years. Botha won't last forever. There's this guy de Klerk coming up. He's a realist.'

'I bet you a hundred pounds it doesn't happen in the next ten years.'

We shook hands.

'All right, Stellings, here's one last test before we send for the straitjacket. Women.'

'What about them?'

'You know what it's like at the moment. How we have to pretend that they're the same as men in every respect. Otherwise you're a s.e.xist.'

'You mean the feminism thing.'

'Yes. We make out that they think, act and feel identically to men. Not just that they deserve equal opportunities and equal pay but that they are at all levels already indistinguishable from men. We know it's not true. But that's not the point. What's required is to pretend that we're identical. They also know it's not true. We know they know it's not true. And they know we know they know we know they know it's not true. Yet every occasion at which women are present is a test of your orthodoxy. One deviation and it's all over. The whole room turns on you and you might as well-'

'Christ, you must know some real schnauzers out there in Bayswater, Groucho. You should meet Clarissa. Come to dinner one day. After all-'

'But you know what I mean.'

'It's called politics, Groucho. That's how politics work. You overstate the case. You brook no compromise, take no prisoners, till you've got what you want. Equal pay, equal everything. Then you relax.'

'And when's that great volte-face due? Friday?'

'We have to live through this. It could be worse, Mike. If we'd been born in the 1890s we'd have been killed in the first weeks of the Great War. Or twenty years later, on the Normandy beaches. If all our generation has to endure is a bit of flak from grumpy feminists, then-'

'But what about the whole generation of men who-'

'It's better than the Somme.'

'And do you think that when it's over we'll forget the lies we all subscribed to?'

'Of course! Because it'll be so much fun we won't want to bring up the past, we'll want to forget it asap. By the end of the century it'll all be forgotten. You'll have women writing books about their own girlishness. Female chief execs of public companies admitting they can't read a map. They'll take pleasure in it. Because they'll have won the war, they'll be generous in the peace. There'll be a boom in pink lipstick and lacy underwear.'

I had to laugh. 'And will they let us call them "girls" again?'

'My dear boy, they'll call themselves themselves "girls" again. They'll call their own films "chick-pics".' "girls" again. They'll call their own films "chick-pics".'

'Are you on drugs, Stellings?'

'Curry leaves and Puligny.'

'You're on a different planet.'

'Though sometimes I do have a tiny sniff of charlie at this time of day. It gets me through the afternoon. Want to join me in the Gents? The manager doesn't give a stuff.'

I looked at Stellings through the remains of the disembowelled paratha and the empty green Perrier bottle. I hadn't got much on that afternoon, so I followed him into the toilet.

Things have been going well with Margaret, the woman's page sub-editor. Since I couldn't face the canteen, I decided to ask her out to lunch with me. Most journalists don't eat at lunchtime, they only drink, so it's quite a palaver proposing a real lunch with knife and fork: people think you're odd. I already knew Margaret wasn't a big boozer and that she did eat sometimes (that half-invite to the canteen), so I was hopeful of a yes. First I had to steel myself to ask. I didn't want to go to the usual place in case I was seen, so I took a blue pill, had a couple of pints of cloudy Burton and large vodka chaser in a fiendish little slit of a pub called the King and Keys, which was full of red-faced men from the Telegraph Telegraph with grey hair and ash on their suits, haranguing one another, already drunk by five past twelve. When I got back, I took the lift to the woman's-page office on the fourth floor, put my head round the door and popped the question. Margaret looked a bit embarra.s.sed to be asked in front of all her colleagues, but agreed to meet me at the front door at ten to one, by which time she was looking slightly more made-up and coiffed. with grey hair and ash on their suits, haranguing one another, already drunk by five past twelve. When I got back, I took the lift to the woman's-page office on the fourth floor, put my head round the door and popped the question. Margaret looked a bit embarra.s.sed to be asked in front of all her colleagues, but agreed to meet me at the front door at ten to one, by which time she was looking slightly more made-up and coiffed.

We went to a Chinese called City Friends, near the Old Bailey. She told me she'd been married and divorced. He was a crime reporter for the Sunday Express Sunday Express and they'd met when both were working briefly for some regional paper. I gathered he was a big drinker and used to knock her about. She had custody of a girl, now ten years old, called Charlotte; they lived in a flat in Holloway. Derek, the husband, no longer visited, though his standing order towards maintenance had so far been honoured. and they'd met when both were working briefly for some regional paper. I gathered he was a big drinker and used to knock her about. She had custody of a girl, now ten years old, called Charlotte; they lived in a flat in Holloway. Derek, the husband, no longer visited, though his standing order towards maintenance had so far been honoured.

Margaret squeezed some rice between her chopsticks. 'I always look at the Sunday Express Sunday Express first and make sure he's got a piece in. That way he'll be happy and won't drink so much and he'll keep his job.' first and make sure he's got a piece in. That way he'll be happy and won't drink so much and he'll keep his job.'

Like me, she'd stumbled into newspapers. She came from Hertfordshire somewhere and, reading between the lines, I gathered that her family were a bit smarter than the Englebys (hard not to be). Local high school, some sort of further ed at the tech. Then, after spells as a secretary and a job in 'marketing', she met someone who suggested she train at Hemel Hempstead with a newspaper group. Thence to the regional rag where she met boozer Derek: a bit of news, some feature writing, but she had no ambitions in that direction, she preferred editing and layout. Couple of jobs with IPC (Woman's Realm, Woman's Work, Woman's Trouble), and then on to the Sunday paper, where she liked it very much indeed. She was six years older than I was, though she could have pa.s.sed for a bit more. Marriage, children, the uncertainty of Derek... I don't know; but while she wasn't exactly motherly, she seemed experienced. What was nice about her was that she didn't come over as embittered. She was candid, optimistic and polite. She offered to pay for lunch, but I didn't let her.

I hadn't a clue how to move on to the next stage, whether she wanted there to be a next stage, or in fact whether I I wanted there to be one. I hoped, perhaps, that with her greater worldliness she might take charge. wanted there to be one. I hoped, perhaps, that with her greater worldliness she might take charge.

The interview with Ken Livingstone didn't go quite as well as I'd expected.

I did try to be something completely new disarming, liberating, original but he treated me with world-weariness, as though he'd dealt with my type a million times before.

We met in the Greater London Council offices at 10.30 on 29 May, 1985. It's always rather odd when you meet someone who's been so much written about. I couldn't help but expect a b.l.o.o.d.y-handed ogre of the tumbrils; instead, I saw a tall, knock-kneed figure emerge from the humdrum twilight of a local government committee room, at the end of a long wood-panelled corridor. I wasn't sure if it was Robespierre or the borough surveyor of Dudley.

We had some milky coffee from a trolley brought in by a tea lady. Mrs Thatcher doesn't like Ken's policies, but he keeps getting elected, so she's had to close down the whole GLC. It was the only thing she could do. Short of having him rubbed out, I suppose. He's off to be an MP now for Brent East, wherever that is. It's a parliamentary invention rather than a real place; there was nowhere called Brent in the A to Z A to Z when I looked. I think it may take in the area round Harlesden and Dollis Hill. I remember taking the Harlesden night bus once and I was the only white man on it. (Ken must know where it is, though, because the very last thing he did as GLC leader was to give Brent, his future base, a 'stress grant' of two million pounds.) when I looked. I think it may take in the area round Harlesden and Dollis Hill. I remember taking the Harlesden night bus once and I was the only white man on it. (Ken must know where it is, though, because the very last thing he did as GLC leader was to give Brent, his future base, a 'stress grant' of two million pounds.) He had no qualms about leaving his fellow-travellers in the scuppered GLC. He was quite perky about the whole thing, in a sour, corner-of-the-mouth way. 'The orthodox Trots have never taken on board minority groups, like blacks and gays,' he said. 'But we can now make a permanent new governing majority in Britain.'

I tried to picture the kind of cabinet this grouping might throw up.

'By the "orthodox Trots", do you mean people like... Like what's his name. The leader of Lambeth Council.'

'Ted Knight. Yeah, those people live in a workerist laager.'

Wow. I hadn't heard anyone speak like that since I was a student. Anyway, I quickly got the boring stuff out of the way, and began to ask from my list of 'interesting' questions.

'What are your favourite books?'

'I never went to college so I never got into reading much.'

'You must have gone to school?'

'Yeah, but I was useless at school.'

'Isn't it a problem being badly educated?' (I was thinking how I could be working in the paper mill.) 'No. It teaches you to trust gut prejudices. You mustn't allow facts to divert your instincts.'

'But you must have read something something?'

'Yeah, well I suppose about seventy per cent of what I've read's been science fiction.'

I forced my fallen jaw back up. 'And the rest? The other thirty per cent?'

'Politics. Do you know the work of the early Jewish philosopher Hillel? He was a contemporary of Christ, only much much more popular.' more popular.'

His eyelids flickered with shy pride as he dangled this name for me.

(I hadn't heard of Hillel, unfortunately, so the next day I looked him up in the British Library catalogue. There was a book about about him by Glatzer, Nahum Norbet, called him by Glatzer, Nahum Norbet, called Hillel the Elder: the Emergence of Cla.s.sical Judaism Hillel the Elder: the Emergence of Cla.s.sical Judaism (1957) and a lot of books about soil mechanics by someone with a similar name; but the man himself seemed, like Jesus, to have written nothing, so it was hard to see how Ken had 'read' him.) (1957) and a lot of books about soil mechanics by someone with a similar name; but the man himself seemed, like Jesus, to have written nothing, so it was hard to see how Ken had 'read' him.) Anyway: back in Ken's office, I returned to my prepared list of questions.

'Where do you take your holidays?' I asked.

'I can't afford to take holidays.'

'How much money have you got?'

'None. I haven't had a job since 1970, when I stopped working at the Royal Marsden hospital.'

'Were you a nurse?'

'I was an auxiliary.'

'So what do you live off?'

'Off the councillor's attendance allowances that were introduced by Michael Heseltine and Peter Walker when they were the Tory environment secretaries.' He crossed his legs. 'I suppose I've got a lot to thank Michael and Peter for.'

'Do you have a girlfriend?'

'I can't discuss that.'

'Are you gay?'

'Private life. I never talk about that to the Press.'

'Do you believe in G.o.d?'

'No.'

I looked back down to my list of questions, and as I did so I noticed something odd about Ken's ankles. He was wearing flared trousers. I didn't know you could still buy them.

I asked if he liked cooking, but he quickly turned his answer, via kitchen work, into a lecture about s.e.x and oppression. 'I don't believe in traditional gender roles in any case. The best men exploit women. Even the best whites exploit blacks.'

I guessed he wasn't much of a cook.

'Are you patriotic?'

'It's impossible not to feel some sort of crude stirring when you hear "Land of Hope and Glory", but you have to set that against the systematic slaughter of the Tasmanian Aborigines.'

I looked down at my reporter's notebook. I'd covered about five sides of it, but that was nothing like enough for a 1,500-word article.

In the end, I had to resort to talking politics; he'd left me no alternative.

His round Chinese laundryman's face at last became animated. 'Oh yeah, I'm the most powerful left-winger ever to hold office in this country. Michael Foot and Tony Benn never had ministries in which they could really influence people's lives like I've done.'

Scribble, scribble. When I'd covered ten more pages, I called a halt. I'd been outflanked by someone determined not to let me let him be interesting. I felt doomed to write about the received ideas after all. Loony this... Newt that... I'd have to wear out the inverted-comma key on my typewriter.

As I left and walked back down that dingy corridor with its numbered doors, Ken called after me to point out that the very last thing he'd done as GLC leader even after the Brent handout was to twin London with Managua.

'Thank you,' I called back.

I left with a smile. I felt that Jen Soc, at least, would have liked that twinning. They'd have voted for it, eight to five with two abstentions. Then a gla.s.s of Hirondelle to celebrate.

The Chatfield Old Boys' Society contains some dogged sleuths. I'm flabbergasted by their persistence. Each year since I left I've dropped their pathetic entreaties for information into the bin; every time I changed address, I failed to tell them. Yet in the morning yesterday I found a copy of the Chatfield Year Book Chatfield Year Book on the doormat. How on earth do they on the doormat. How on earth do they do do that? It was addressed to me as M. Engleby, though in the Old Boys' News section, I was appalled to read: 'M. Engleby (Collingham, 196670) is reportedly working as a journalist in London under the nom de plume Michael Watson. Further sightings, please!' that? It was addressed to me as M. Engleby, though in the Old Boys' News section, I was appalled to read: 'M. Engleby (Collingham, 196670) is reportedly working as a journalist in London under the nom de plume Michael Watson. Further sightings, please!'

The only thing that cheered me up was an entry in the Valete Valete column. 'J.T. Baynes (Collingham 196368) died from a stroke in Stoke Mandeville hospital. He had suffered gradual paralysis over many years. Our sympathies to his widow Jane and their two children.' column. 'J.T. Baynes (Collingham 196368) died from a stroke in Stoke Mandeville hospital. He had suffered gradual paralysis over many years. Our sympathies to his widow Jane and their two children.'

'Gradual paralysis'. Was that a bona fide medical term? It was good enough for Lt Commander S.R. Sidway, RN, retd, editor of the Year Book Year Book. And good enough to have finished old Baynes.

As I climbed out of the underground at Chancery Lane and looked in the clothes shop with the Tudor half-timbering, I puzzled over one thing: how 'Jane' allowed that faceful of pus to rub on her skin while he impregnated her. I also felt slightly disappointed that he'd managed to find a wife at all though Christ knows what sort of swamp-dweller he'd bagged.

For the rest, of course, the news was unalloyed delight, and at lunchtime I took Margaret to Langan's Bra.s.serie to celebrate. We both had the spinach souffle with anchovy sauce to start, and a bottle of the house champagne to wash it down. Then another bottle with the main course. Afterwards we walked over to the Ritz, took a room and had it off.

There was a message on my desk last Friday. The handwriting was that of Felicity Maddox, the sarcastic newsroom secretary. 'James Stellings's office rang. Would you go to dinner Thursday the 11th. 8.30, 152 Elgin Crescent, W11.'

I found the word 'dinner' a bit intimidating. Would it be just me and Stellings and his wife and child or was it a 'dinner party'? I'd never been to one of those, though I'd seen them in plays and films. (In Accident Accident, by Joseph Losey, for instance.) Christ. I pictured this Clarissa in some sort of ball gown saying to the other guests, 'James has asked his funny little friend Toilet Engleby. He's known him since college, apparently. What a scream! Do be kind to him, won't you?'