August 7, 2020

I’d taken out John Mortimer’s memoirs from the library, to begin with, because I have not had the slightest whiff of a criminal case for months, and was seeking solace in his tales about life at the English criminal bar. (The pangs worsened, not improved, on the return of the learned FCM, who has the room next to mine. His habit of talking aloud to himself, and his carrying voice (booming in the courtrooms without the aid of a mic) means that I am constantly teetering on my seat-edge tormented with unbearable curiosity about his current cases, which he discusses, at great lengths, with his invisible alter ego in the room, while I plough on gloomily with a divorce or a shareholders’ agreement.) Besides, the Rumpole stories are much beloved courtroom-detective tales, and they were at this very moment being performed on the radio. What I hadn’t expected were the reminiscences about his second life as a playwright, his personal memories of theatrical personalities, from John Gielgud and David Niven to Kristin Scott Thomas; lush descriptions of his travels to Italy and France and Russia, an amusing chapter on the challenges of translating German librettos into English (trying to get the vowel sounds to fit the music), along with criticisms of British politics and more besides. I also found, midway, two accounts of his visits to 1970s and 80s Singapore to defend JBJ for libel (it is the first time I’ve heard JBJ referred to as ‘Ben’), together with descriptions of the street scenes of old Singapore — evoking in me cringing embarrassment (always, when another defamation suits is commenced), mixed with nostalgia.

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mulberrypasilk ways to nonplus the father, #425 father: i bought a mulberry plant: it’s in the garden. come and see! me: why? are we going to keep silkworms?