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KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

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Chapter Four
Diana, the IFSD and the FTM

'Duke: In my world, we respect the law. You are part of my world. You will respect the law.
Iridia: I'm going.
Duke: You are not. It is not legal, it is not safe.
Iridia: I don't care.
Duke: I care. I am your father. You are only 14. It is my job to care.
Iridia: Then come with me, keep me safe.
Duke: That is a stupid idea.
Iridia: Why?
Duke: Why what?
Iridia: Why's it a stupid idea for you to come with me?
Duke: You are not going.
Iridia: I am. You can't stop me.
Duke: I can. I will.
Iridia: Come with me. I'm serious.
[DUKE LOOKS AT IRIDIA WITH ASTONISHMENT.]
Duke: Why?
Iridia: Why what?
Duke: Why should I come with you?
[IRIDIA TURNS SLOWLY TO THE WALLSCREEN WHICH IS NOW SHOWING THE FAMOUS CAMCLIP OF OJORU'S MANTRA. THE SOUND VOLUME STEADILY INCREASES.]
Iridia: To change the world.
[DUKE BURSTS OUT LAUGHING.]'
'I'll Change the World' by Finbar Oakley (2030)

By the winter of 2028-29, Harriet had sunk into a depressed, sulky state that was impervious to my attentions and efforts to help. During the last year of that decade our life deteriorated bit by bit. She began to find Bronze as difficult as Crystal. We passed through periods of seemingly endless dinner parties and banal weekend visits, and others in which Harriet preferred working to being with us, her family. I was a buffer. When she was tired or busy, I organised the practical arrangements with childminders and transport to and from the kindergarten, and, when she wanted to take over again, I stepped back. We tried therapy together a second time (but without resorting to cams in the home this time round) on the pretense that the problem might be mine; and Harriet employed a different therapist alone on the pretense of improving her already successful life.

There was a respite in 2030 when Harriet managed to persuade her doctor to prescribe a course of the 'miracle' drug Solama. She had gone to the surgery for one of Bronze's problems, but had mentioned in passing 'a very mild depression'. Solama was only prescribed in this country for a maximum of six months with a lead-in and tail-off period at either end. (A few of the many who bypassed the law by changing doctors fuelled the suicide statistics that were to start accelerating in the 40s.) Solama worked for Harriet. She began an affair with a colleague at work which lasted as long as the drug did. She never tried to hide her actions, in the sense that she stayed away some nights, and never explained why. I accepted her behaviour because it seemed to be linked to a lighter and more carefree mood, which I felt was beneficial for our children. But when the Solama ran out, her affair must have burnt itself through, and once again she became impossible to please and chronically moody.

Towards the end of the year 30, I became seriously worried about Harriet's gambling bills. With so little to lose, since she was scarcely communicating and as gloomy and unapproachable as I had ever seen her, I took a decision to confront her about the debts. I chose a Saturday night, when the children were asleep. I pretended that I had been looking for something of mine in her drawers and found the bank statements. I spoke to her in a stern righteous tone, as Julie spoke to me when I was five, or in the way I spoke to the bullies in the playground when I was nine. I must have tried the tactic, one of few I possessed, on Harriet in our early days together, but no doubt she had quickly learned to disarm it. On this occasion, though, she made no attempt to counter-attack or to defend herself. I employed dramatic soap opera statements such as 'we have children now' and 'our very home is at stake'. I told her that, under no circumstances, could I allow this to go on. It was an all-or-nothing effort. She looked directly at me with horror or shock or both ­ in silence. When I ran out of sternness and righteousness, she sat there, deflated and quiet, her head bowed towards her hands in her knees. After a minute or two, she rose from the chair, left the room and went to bed.

I stayed up late into the night watching Heart and Cold, the second of the Sensations series which brought Movie Martyr worldwide acclaim. What she did, which no-one had done before in the mainstream film market, was to show, by filming her own life in excruciating detail, how awareness of self and acute consciousness could help one cope with life's excesses while, at the same time, enriching life's experience, whether good or bad. Somehow, she managed to provide each film with a personal story about herself, a member of her family or a friend, sequences of comic action to rival the great Charlie Chaplin, and bags of unexpected insights into the way we lived and who we were. Some critics hated her films. They argued that because she lived her life in such a way as to create the drama and comedy, her insights were not valid. Personally, I could see no difference between Movie Martyr's approach and that of the great travel writers of the 20th century who actively sought out situations which would provide material for good prose. I do not think it is a coincidence that I mention Movie Martyr here. For me, personally, the late 20s period was a nightmare and she provided some good honest commentary on what it was like to be human.

The next morning, Sunday, Harriet went out without saying where or when she would be back. I drove Crystal and Bronze to Godalming to see Julie. Harriet returned two days later but would not communicate. Christmas came and went in a sour domestic fog. In January, she announced she was going to live with her mother, by then single again, in Canterbury, and commute to work. I protested vehemently, not for myself but for the children. She ignored me, as she usually did, and for a month I was left to juggle the children's care arrangements and work (I had transferred to the Department of the Environment in Shropshire House the previous autumn but I'll have to return to this).

Then she came back and, in effect, threw me out.

By Crystal's sixth birthday, in May 31, we were divorced. I tried not to think about the fact that most friends and acquaintances would find a link between the failure of our marriage and what they had read or heard about in connection to the Daily Truth article. I settled down in a second floor pad with high ceilings in a Victorian house along Randolph Avenue, Maida Vale (a few minutes walk from Lords as it happens) and Harriet installed a nanny into my old office room in Lacey's Lane. I was surprised at how great a relief it was to be in charge of my own life. The downside was my separation from Crystal and Bronze. I had never been very close to them but, while we had lived in the same house, I had not recognised the reality of the emotional distance between us. This lack of a closeness mattered much more when we lived in separate homes. I saw them every weekend to begin with, but, as they grew older and more able to express their boredom with me, the schedule slipped and I saw them only once a fortnight. As time went by I thought about them often; and, even more often, I tried not to think about them.

As far as I know, from the day I forced Harriet to face the truth of her addiction, she never gambled again. My intervention did her no good. She did not seem to recover from that period in our life (I never saw her as happy again as when she was pregnant both times). Nor, I came to realise later, did Crystal and Bronze recover from our inadequate parenting.

***

Jay, by contrast, is a stable, affable fellow. The Jay co-op did a fair job, I'm pleased to say, not that I personally can claim much credit. He came in yesterday, later than usual, glossy from an afternoon session in a tavern with friends and some Australians they had met. He was rather taken, he said, by a young blond man who had made eyes at him, and then asked for a liaison. But the boy was nearly 20 years his junior, Jay confided, and would be heading back to Perth in a week's time. Besides, he added trying to convince himself, 'It was not sex I wanted but companionship.' I could sense, though, that Jay had been flattered by the attention and ­ with Vince's absence still hurting ­ wished to puff himself up a tad. I too felt flattered that my son, in his mid-40s, was able to confide in me about such a matter.

Before he went I showed him a few photographs.

Eduard Isaac Asser is not my favourite of the Dutch photographers (I prefer Pieter Oosterhuis and his glass stereographs) but he may have been the first to photograph the canals of Amsterdam. The few reproductions I have on Neil (still lifes, family portraits and views of Amsterdam) demonstrate a tight, formal sense of composition, constrained perhaps by the traditions of Dutch painting. I do admire this one, Still life with dead chicken, grapevine shoots and pumpkin, because of the way Asser composed the picture: the arc-like outline of the pumpkin is mirrored in the shape of one of the vine stalks, and in the curve of the breast of the chicken hanging down by one leg below the pumpkin and in front of the intertwined stalks and leaves; and the finger-like pattern of the bird's wings is similar to that on some of the vine leaves. Most of the photograph is dark grey, but for the chicken in the middle which is a bright white and the pumpkin and grapevine stalks which are light grey. All three elements also share a mottled tone. Evidently, for it was to be another 50 years before early in the 20th century colour photography was to achieve its initial success, this is a black and white photograph. Yet the bright orange of the pumpkin and the fresh green of the vine leaves ache to be recognised. Best of all, though, is the knife, barely perceived at first, which is stuck in the pumpkin, perhaps deliberately, perhaps carelessly, resting there, waiting for something ­ for someone to cook fowl and pumpkin pie perhaps.

Chintz came by a few moments ago with a copy of my latest medical report. When I asked her what she thought of this photograph, I had to explain that a pumpkin was not an American fruit but a tasty vegetable, from the same family as a marrow.

'A what?'

'A big courgette.'

'It doesn't look like a courgette, it looks like a melon.'

I am more fond, though, of this photograph by Asser of Keizersgracht. Jay said it lacks soul. I agree partly, but to my mind it is another deliberate still life. There are no people anywhere along the Keizersgracht, so the photograph may have been taken early on a summer morning. The water in the canal looks lifeless, and, if there are any barges, they are barely discernible under the distant bridge or beyond. But Asser takes me, the viewer, on the right hand of the photograph, down one side of the canal, past the church (Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk), past a dozen or so tall and handsome four storey houses, each with their windows at slightly different levels, to the bridge in the distance. The bridge itself cuts off the view of the street beyond, so I choose to walk across the three arches of the bridge hoping to reach the other side of the canal. But then, abruptly, before concluding my stroll across the bridge, I reach the edge of the photograph, and the end of my journey. Or do I? Although the water of the canal fills the left-hand side of the photo, Asser has not left me stranded. The dark mass of a treetop leans over into the top left corner, above the bridge, but much nearer the foreground. With the knowledge that the tree's trunk must be firmly planted on the left bank, marginally out of view, I can take that slight leap of faith at the end of the bridge and enjoy the walk back up the left-hand bank of the canal. Jay was not convinced. He did point out, though, that if all the people, scooters, bicycles and moored barges could be removed from the scene today, the very same picture taken, 250 years on, might not be much different. Yes, but only thanks to advanced, extensive and very costly dyke engineering.

What Jay did not know, until I told him, was that my tentative relationship with Asser (visiting an exhibition in Rotterdam and culling these photos from the net) started because of this very photograph of Keizersgracht, and not because of some expert appreciation of the artist. After moving to Holland in early 33 I had neglected my interest in antique photographs and it was only with a spring in my step wound up, if I can put it that way, because of a walk with Diana along the canal, that I set about trying to find the earliest photographs of it. There is a more soul-full and interesting picture (two photos, a stereograph) by Oosterhuis but it was taken at a different spot on Keizersgracht, and captures a scene across the water rather than along it. Jay preferred this photo to the one by Asser. He noticed the reflections in the canal and the way the real light and the reflected light forms a cross with the line of the street. I showed it to Chintz too. She spotted the difference between the two parts of the stereograph, as if it were a quiz in a journey book: 'Oh look, that cute Dickens street lamp has moved.'

I could lie here until my deathday revisiting my own collection of photographs or browsing through Portia, re-appreciating hundreds, thousands of these reproductions. The importance of the photographic record was not so widely acknowledged when I was a young man as it is today, although it became so by the 40s and 50s. I believe this was partly because digital photos did not entirely replace film photographs until the 20s and it took another decade for any sweeping cultural nostalgia for the old form to emerge. And when the nostalgia did emerge, it encompassed the whole 200 years since the origins of photography in the 1830s and 1840s. To my mind, though, it is only the photographs of the first 80 years that are so special. The moving pictures, when they arrived, in the 1920s, soon eclipsed ordinary still photos, and all other art forms, in their power to record and preserve the state of the world. Looking ahead a 1,000 years or more, we will be able to define our history, our culture, our geography, our dress codes etc. in three periods with reference to three main documentary tools: all of history up to 1840 through paintings, drawings and the like; a period of 80 years from 1840-1920 through still photographs (such as those safely stored by the great Daguerreotype Museum in Boston, the National Photography Museum and The Josephine Collection in England, the Rijksmuseum-Rotterdam extension, and Japan's Nikon Gallery and Archive); and all of history after 1920 through moving photos.

It is all too easy to allow myself to be sidetracked by these photographs, but I must move on.

***

The Department of Industry and Technology did not suit me. The European Union's research and development (R&D) budget was massive at the time, and I was one of many officials involved in various technical and bureaucratic positions all aimed at ensuring the UK got the best value it could from the European projects. In order to counter the R&D successes of the US and Japan, the EU's Member States had, over time, agreed to focus more and more of their R&D resources on technically-strategic goals instead of national political objectives. Because of my previous experience I was assigned to policy and planning for future programmes, which was better work than implementation and monitoring of current programmes. Nevertheless, I found my tasks tedious, and longed to be in a department which was important because of the issues it was tackling not because of the size of the budget. My less-than-glorious shift from the Department of Communications meant it would not have been wise to seek a further move in less than two years. Thus, it was only in the spring of 30 that I began actively looking for another position. After six months of increasing frustration, Horace rang, out of the blue, to suggest I contact Judith Singleton informally at the Department of the Environment. It transpired, as far as I could work out, that Horace had, on my behalf, been asking around among his colleagues in the House, and a junior minister had recalled that Singleton, head of the climate change section at Shropshire House, was in dire need of someone with EU experience and confidence, and with a head for complex policy issues.

I fell for Jude the moment I walked into her office: there were two Eugène Atget prints of Paris in the early 1900s, carefully framed and hung on one wall. Her desk was busy but not untidy (unlike many I'd observed which were examples either of unstable disorder or ostentatious emptiness), and she rose to greet me with a gracious smile and handshake. Her short-cut light hair and elegant simple trouser suit gave her a Scandinavian appearance. In time, I discovered she was ruthlessly efficient when necessary, in a very British way, an attribute which made her an excellent chair at meetings. At her prompt, I explained why I was anxious for a change. She outlined the job available. When her secretary rang through with a pre-arranged signal in case she wanted to close the interview quickly, she chose instead to order tea and biscuits, which allowed us another 40 minutes, five of which were spent talking about Atget. Subsequently, it took three months to move through the required civil service job opening and application procedures. By late October, when I was installed in a bright airy office on the third floor of Shropshire House overlooking one of the University College buildings, I had briefed myself intensively on the background and the job in hand.

Global warming, caused largely by a rapid growth in the emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases, became an international political issue in the 1990s. It is generally accepted today that the world's efforts to prevent the consequences of climate change were, at best, marginally successful, and, at worst, without any effect whatsoever. Later, of course, the climate catastrophe of the Grey Years made any concerns over global warming utterly redundant. Many commentators, however, point out that the world's efforts in trying to deal with climate change led to alternative benefits, and that, in any case, nations often wasted resources through far less constructive activities, notably war. Personally, I believe the global warming problem concentrated the collective mind of mankind in a way that had never happened before, and thus helped it take a small step towards maturity ­ not that there haven't been several steps back.

Again I need to fill in some background which is readily available elsewhere, so I'll be brief. The UN Framework Convention on Climate Change was signed at the famous Rio conference in 1992 (the first World Summit on the environment) and set in motion a process that led to national and international commitments to control and reduce greenhouse gas emissions. First came the Kyoto Protocol by which most developed countries (but not the US) agreed to stabilise their emissions of greenhouse gases by 2010-12. Although the efforts were nation-based there were limited mechanisms designed to allow a flow of funds for investments into less-developed countries. Next came the Delhi Annex. Although signed in 2008, it was fraught with problems and did not come into force until 2017. Basically, it set the developed countries and some of the largest developing countries emission reduction targets for the year 2025. Furthermore, it put in motion a procedure for inter-governmental emissions trading, thus providing a crude mechanism by which the developed countries could buy progress towards their targets, and by which the developing countries could attract major investment. Although this had the distinct benefit of directing investment to where it could most efficiently be employed in reducing emissions, it also allowed the US, which had rejoined the process by this time, to continue prevaricating over any significant national measures.

My uncle, Alan, pointed out to me on more than one occasion that the US's position from Kyoto on set such a bad example to the rest of the world that the whole process was fatally undermined. He put it this way once: how could a rich and powerful ringleader who smoked like a chimney persuade the rest of his gang to give up cigarettes? The gang members tried, but, with the leader puffing away, many of them failed to put in as much effort as they might have done.

By 2010, the long-standing scientific International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) had confirmed that the weather chaos across the globe and the related increase in human suffering (death, injury, loss of property and crops) was directly due to global warming, and that this was, as had been known for some time, partly caused by man-made emissions of greenhouse gases. Disturbingly, moreover, it had begun to suggest that, even if global warming was not progressing any faster than had been predicted 20 years previously, the impact of that warming on the climate system was becoming more chaotic than had been forecast by all but environmental scaremongers. It was one thing to have the media tell citizens each time there was a flood, famine or hurricane that it was caused by global warming, it was another to have scientists tell them that such events were going to become more frequent and more intense. The Hague Protocol, signed in 2019, was a last ditch attempt by the world to save itself from further expected havoc. As with the Delhi Annex, the negotiations were largely a battle between what the richer countries would do themselves and how much they would help the poorer countries to control their growing emissions. It was aimed at achieving certain objectives by 2035.

Theodore Roosevelt convened a world conference on natural resource conservation two centuries ago in 1909. An international conference in Stockholm in 1972, however, was the key moment in history when the environment became not only an international issue but one linked with the development of less privileged countries (i.e. those variously labelled developing or undeveloped). That same conference led to the formation of the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP), and to the promotion of a concept called 'sustainable development'. The UNEP-organised first World Summit in Rio in 1992 not only agreed the Climate Change Convention but a global plan of action for sustainable development known as Agenda 21. Over the next 20 years, at Johannesburg (2002) and Beijing (2012), the international community toyed and tinkered with how best to promote sustainable development, linking it sometimes less and sometimes more with environmental concerns. At Beijing, the group of developing countries, forever known as G77 despite its actual number of members, launched a major campaign calling for a new fund for sustainable development. Opposition came from the US and Japan, and Europe was divided about the idea, so the G77 proposal ended up on the shelf for a decade. It was not until 2022 at the fourth World Summit in Lagos that an informal agreement was taken to launch, under the auspices of the United Nations, a major new organisation, to be known as the International Fund for Sustainable Development (IFSD).

Although the visionary Ojoru was not yet Nigeria's leader by the time of the Lagos World Summit, he played a crucial role in forging the IFSD agreement. His extraordinary non-speech to the European Parliament a few years earlier and the ongoing drought and famine in parts of West Africa had reminded the world it should not be turning its back on the region. And, in time for the Lagos meeting, Ojoru had miraculously persuaded the African Union, comprising nearly all African countries, to present a unified front, and to allow himself to be its chief negotiator. With the UN agreement in principle signed, Ojoru continued to lobby furiously throughout the 20s to ensure the IFSD would become operational as quickly as possible. He also pressed for it to be provided with sufficient funds to make a real difference and to be organised in such a way as to benefit the African continent in particular.

The IFSD, with an office in Abuja and a much larger operation in the Hague, was launched in 28. It was not as grand or as well-funded as Ojoru and many others had hoped, and there were critics a-plenty proclaiming it would make no more difference than other UN agencies had over the years. Yet, even as the IFSD was making its first grants, Europe (with strong pressure from the UK's green-tinged government) was already forging a plan to propose a substantial expansion. European leaders, meeting in Riga in June 30 (not long before my move to the Department of the Environment), agreed on the outlines of an ambitious plan to divert an additional 0.3% of the developed world's gross domestic product (GDP) to the IFSD to deal with, among other needs, the consequences of climate-related disasters, and the development and strengthening of infrastructure required to withstand future climatic disturbances. This was to be over and above the 0.7-1.0% of GDP already granted by most Western nations in overseas development aid (ODA) through multifarious channels. But, in addition, the European Union plan proposed four further incremental raises of 0.2%! The EU announced it would be seeking rapid approval for the plan and agreement at the fifth World Summit in Kiev in 32. It warned that its own commitment to raise ODA by such a huge amount (by as much as 1.1% to a total of around 2.0%) would depend on other developed nations making similar commitments. The EU gave itself less than two years before the Kiev World Summit to persuade the US and Japan and its own public as to why such apparent philanthropy was so urgent.

At the risk of sounding like a committee report, I should explain why Europe was intent on proposing a near-overnight 30-40% increase in foreign aid, and then a further 60-80% increase (a policy which would hurt its citizens' pockets in a less-then prosperous period). Firstly, the Bengal Bay tragedy in 28 and other major climate-related tragedies had demonstrated, in the most horrific way, the truth of the IPCC findings. Accepting this truth led to the inevitable conclusion that the developed world needed to make a more definite, reliable and sizeable contribution to deal with such disasters. Secondly, because of a steady acceleration in sporadic outbursts of terrorism, there was serious concern (in Europe more than the Americas) that the global relationship between the fairly static Christian world and the fast-expanding Muslim world was becoming unstable, and that the wealth gap between the two was at the root of this instability.

Thirdly, by the late 20s, the First Tuesday Movement had begun to scare the public and governments alike. On Tuesday 4 May 1927, the United Nations published a dry statistical report called The State of Nations: a 50 year assessment. With help from eagle-eyed non-governmental organisations, the media soon latched on to the headline message: between 1975 and 2025 the rich had got much richer and the poor had stayed poor. This proved to be a most terrible indictment of the efforts made by the privileged developed nations (not least through the UN itself) to help the undeveloped nations. Various demonstrations started up sporadically in cities around the world but soon coalesced, thanks to the net and the media, into the First Tuesday Movement (FTM). Within a year, there was no major capital city which did not see marches and demonstrations on the first Tuesday of the month. The FTM acted as a magnet attracting all kinds of disaffected and disadvantaged people as well as those well-off but with a conscience. (In London, Harriet and I were already burdened down with children and our own problems to be much affected by the FTM. Moreover, both of us were too straight, as they used to say, to join a demo.) In the early 30s, though, the FTM gatherings in hundreds of cities became characterised by rioting and purposeful anti-capitalist looting.

For many, the writing had been on the wall for decades: escalating climate disasters were a direct consequence of far too little action to control emissions; and escalating political and social disorder around the world, exacerbated by ever more severe floods and famines in the regions least able to cope with them, were a direct consequence of the rich nations having failed to share their wealth over the previous 50 years.

And this is where, after a lengthy introduction, I finally re-emerge into the story.

My main task in Jude Singleton's section was to facilitate UK input into the EU's plan for the IFSD. This involved liaising with other government departments (often through Jude but increasingly not) to crystallise the UK position; communicating this position to the policy group in Brussels which was negotiating and preparing the EU's position in advance of the Kiev World Summit (through a UK official in Brussels, or by attending the meetings myself); and reporting back to my masters on the outcome of relevant EU and international meetings. Despite having to liaise with a man called Rike Thomas (not Rik or Rick or Rikky but Rike as in Mike or tyke!) my opposite number in the overseas aid section of the Department of External Affairs and the frustrations of being engaged in complicated long-term international negotiations, I felt far more comfortable in the Department of the Environment than I had done in the Department of Industry and Technology.

Because I was living alone in Randolph Avenue and my only commitments to Crystal and Bronze came at weekends, I could work long hours and travel freely. Mostly I saw my children together every other Saturday, and I made an effort to vary our schedule. About once a month we would drive to Godalming and spend the day with Julie, exploring the open heath land or the North Downs. If Alan was around he would usually find time to join us. Much less often we met up with Tom at the zoo or an adventure park, but, if cold or wet, at the cinema. He brought my children gifts, and made them laugh. Once only did we make the trip across town to his home in Epsom, not the horrible semi-detached house, but another larger property he had bought with his new wife, Fragrance, an ex-secretary. When Tom had retired in 26, he had taken her to the Bahamas for a holiday, and they had decided spontaneously to marry there and then. I could not stand the woman, but they seemed to make each other happy.

Other Saturdays, I would impose myself on one friend or another for a few hours. In particular, though, I grew to rely on Miriam and Doug Turnbull who had two girls the same ages as Crystal and Bronze. Doug also worked under Jude Singleton, dealing with chemical and industrial pollution policy. Since we didn't share any interests, I'm not sure why we became friends. Perhaps we thought and talked and operated at a similar intensity which led us naturally to seek each other out in the canteen at lunch-time, knowing it would be a simple uncomplicated encounter, free from innuendo and one-upmanship. His wife, Miriam took a while to warm to me, and, I feel sure, accepted my visits with Crystal and Bronze, who were not the easiest of kids, out of kindness.

At times I missed the long debates I used to have with Harriet (who became very business-like with me), but there were plenty of colleagues in Shropshire House (or in Brussels when I was there) willing to discuss, over a zini or pizza, the underlying purpose of bizarre drafting changes put forward by the Greeks or Norwegians. Unfettered by the need to hide my activities at home from anyone, my relationship with Lola flourished, as did my monthly bill for her services. Fortunately, a disturbing trend in my own tastes, for visual interaction with younger teenage girls (or composite equivalent), encouraged by Lola, was cut short by her sudden disappearance. She net-vanished leaving me stranded. My determined efforts to find connections as satisfying as those she had brought me failed miserably. Instead, I had to make do with a new net madam. I did this reluctantly. She sent me, formally and coldly, a copy of a standard Solar (the open Euronet) services form (with a summary of guidelines on Unacceptable Content), and required my e-sign. Within a month or two of Lola's disappearance, I decided I should make an effort to find non-virtual female company. I contacted old friends, joined a well-run singles dance and dinner group, and signed up anonymously to a few net dating agencies. I did get out and about more, but the more I did so, the more I realised how difficult it would be to find someone to be close to again.

***

Of the two years or so I lived in Randolph Avenue, I particularly recall the autumn of 32 because of several colourful trips I made all within the space of two months.

Tom called me one Thursday morning to tell me his father, Barry, who had lived in Malta since before I was born, had died, at the age of 91. He asked me to go with him to the funeral. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about the need to make rearrangements for Crystal and Bronze and a meeting on Monday morning which I would have to miss (Tom having proposed to stay an extra day). But I had not gone anywhere with my father in nearly 15 years, not since the Bangkok trip; nor had we spent more than a day together in all that time. On the aeroplane he reminded me that we had been to Malta when I was about four. Barry had invited us, and, reluctantly, Julie had agreed. I had no recollections of this at all. Julie had never talked about the holiday, nor shown me any snaps.

'What an effing week that was. We took one of those cheap flights from Gatwick. This was long before the air traffic reforms. Delayed five hours we were. You were suffering from fidgetitis and flu at the same time. Your mother was pre-menstrual. I was no less short-tempered than usual, and that was before we got there. We're not one hour at the villa when Barry starts laying into me about never visiting Evvie enough when she was alive. He calls me 'son' all the time which doesn't help. I try to stay calm, but when his Maltese wife ­ fuck knows what her name was ­ takes Julie and you to the bedroom, I start on about him never looking after her well enough. Maybe not then, but sometime during the week, I probably accused him of killing her by neglect. It was fun when we went out on our own, although I expect I gave Julie a hard time. I can't remember what we did.'

I paraphrase, but Tom's voice and some of our conversations remain remarkably fresh in my memory.

'Now the old bugger's died.'

'Where's he been living? And what happened to the nameless wife?'

'She left him when his money ran out. He caught lucky in the early 1990s with a specialised computer sales outfit. Made a cool three million selling it to one of the national retailers, and then retired to Malta. Spent it all ages ago. Been in a nursing home on the outskirts of Valletta for nearly ten years. A dull place. I've been twice, both times when he thought he was dying. He was bitter about the wife not visiting him.' He stopped, and turned his head. I was left contemplating what he said as well as the side of his face. Being middle-aged might have suited him, but old age was not treating him well; he could have been in his 80s not his early 70s. I felt sad to realise how ancient he had become.

'I don't want to go through that, I'll drink myself to heaven rather than spend one night in a home.'

And he did too.

Barry's nursing home, a modernish construction with 20 or 30 rooms, was located in Zejtun, not one of the island's prettiest places. The staff had arranged all the funeral details. Tom and I and the proprietor, a solemn charmless middle-aged matron, were driven in a shiny black hearse to a modest crematorium, part-owned, the proprietor was proud to tell us, by herself. Three others were present at the very brief service. We took a taxi back to the nursing home, where the matron had arranged for Barry's will to be read by her son, who was training to be a lawyer. Apparently, the will had been passed on from a high-class solicitor in central Valletta, when Barry stopped paying the annual charges, to the home itself. Tom hoped there might be instructions concerning Barry's ashes, but there were none. All of Barry's estate (precisely nothing) was left to the Maltese wife (she who had not bothered to turn up for the funeral). Tom needed a short time with the proprietor alone, so I sat on a wall outside in the sun battling with a horsefly.

Tom came out snorting with rage at the size of the final bill. Apparently, he had been financing Barry's stay in the home and his medical bills for many years (out of his own fat pension presumably).

'Nearly 4,000 fucking euros. Charges for undertaking duties, charges for the crematorium, charges for the solicitor ­ can you believe that? ­ and for various debts. That woman's a bloody crook.' Then, after a short pause in which I said nothing, there followed a routine we had developed over the years since the fateful new year's eve we'd spent together. Whether he said the opening line, or I did, it made no difference, because we both knew they were his words, and that, whereas once they had been used on me with alarming gravitas, they now served as a means for us to lighten our mood, to switch almost instantly from anything too serious to laughter and good humour.

'Well, fucking say something.'

'Put it down to experience, Dad.' On this occasion, it sounded funnier than usual for being so utterly inappropriate. 'And we still don't know what to do with his ashes.'

'Anything, so long as it doesn't cost.'

Tom realised he had forgotten to ask for a taxi. Having made a nuisance of himself with the proprietor he didn't want to go back in and beg a favour. So, in our dark suits, we walked through dusty streets towards the centre of Zejtun until we found a ride back to the hotel in Valletta.

The following morning we first returned to the crematorium to collect Barry's ashes, contained in a cheap casket. At Tom's insistence, we then went on a boat tour around the island. As the launch lulled in a pretty sea cave with colourful underwater flora, Tom leaned over the side, opened the casket and sprinkled Barry's ashes as ceremoniously as he could manage without drawing attention to himself.

'Goodbye you old codger,' he whispered with only a hint of regret. When we emerged into the dazzling midday sun again, I asked Tom what he would want done with his own ashes. I could have guessed his answer.

In the afternoon, as we sat in a small public garden sheltered by bougainvillaea-covered walkways, he revisited a few memories of his childhood. Later, over dinner we talked about Julie, and a moment came ­ I remember this distinctly ­ when I could have told him about her lover and about the doctor. I asked myself whether I wanted him to know, and whether he would want to know, and the answer was a resounding 'no' in both cases. If Julie had died first and Tom himself had grown old and maudlin and asked the question, 'Did you ever find out, son, who your father was?', I might have answered him.

The following weekend I spent in Manchester. Alfred, that African chappy as Tom called him, had returned to Britain a year earlier to do research and a postgraduate degree on 'New techniques in the analysis of the costs and benefits of international aid: application in two sectors (health and agriculture) and three countries (Nigeria, Tanzania and Sudan)'. We had met three or four times, mostly in London where he came often to see other friends. By that autumn, he had made excellent progress on the thesis. He had also persuaded his professor to let him teach a trial unit on bio-politics in sub-Saharan Africa.

On this particular occasion, though, I was invited to join him (and most of his volleyball club) to watch England play Belarus in a European Championship qualifying match. The game itself proved lifeless as Belarus, decimated by recent injuries, failed to offer England much of a challenge. But the result put England top of the mini-league, and almost guaranteed it a place at the championship finals the following May in Estonia. Alfred and I discussed plans to make the trip to Tallin, but they never materialised. This was a shame because England have never, before or since, made it to such an important final, or achieved top-three status in Europe.

Despite the dull match, though, it was a memorable day, not only because of England's success but because I timed out with scores of people I had played with or against in more youthful days. One of them introduced me to John Buffer, England's (then not yet legendary) coach. Alfred was much in demand. I hadn't realised until then how much of a volleyball celebrity he had become, partly because he had captained Manchester University so successfully for a couple of years in the early 20s, but more so, I would guess, because of his position in the Nigerian team which had won the African cup three times in five years. Gemma, as beautiful as I remembered her, showed up that day too. It surprised me that Alfred should have stayed in touch with her. She brought her husband, a musician of West Indian origin who sported dreadlocks platted with orange beads, and three boisterous children. Needless to say I did not mention my encounter with Rob; nor did Alfred, Gemma or I allude in any way to our dreadful shared memory.

Alfred may have won plaudits for his volleyball playing but, by the early 30s, he had not yet found his professional niche. Unfortunately, his father, who had been a successful diplomat in the 10s, lost favour and position with the change of regime that brought Ojoru in as deputy prime minister. Without friends in high places, even Alfred's top degree in political science had been no passport to power. He joined the army, trained as an officer and took his turn on peacekeeping duties in the restless parts of Africa. After seven years, he accepted the best civilian post he could find, assistant governor in a region of the country where ethnic disturbances were not uncommon. Given his experience in the army, the governor used him as 'a bucket of water to put out fires', Alfred said, whenever the fires (racial friction) threatened to spread. He hated it. However, instead of throwing in the towel, as it were, he worked assiduously and achieved results where and when he could. His success with the Nigerian volleyball team had allowed him to earn extra income for a few years by appearing in advertisements for a Brazilian car company. He also avoided marriage and saved ruthlessly. Which was how, in 31, he had sufficient funds to return to the UK and pay the uni postgrad fees.

Jumping ahead a few years, I like to recall that I personally engineered a meeting between Alfred and a Nigerian colleague, a personal appointment of Ojoru, who worked in Enterprise 35, and that this connection resulted in Alfred being appointed to a senior federal government job on his return to Nigeria after completing the PhD. From there, he went on to work directly for Ojoru in Abuja as one of his many, many advisers. Much later, I also found a place for his skills in the IFSD's Abuja office.

***

And now for something completely different (a phrase that has stuck in my head since Tom used it often during my childhood; it seemed to have a life of its own, as though it were amusing in itself). My third journey that autumn took me on a package holiday to Dracula Park in Romania. I do not think Harriet or I would ever have chosen such a holiday for our children of our own accord, but when Doug and Miriam told me of their plans and suggested Crystal, Bronze and I tag along, the idea somehow took hold. By this time, Crystal was already seven, and Bronze was a few months off five, and they were both comfortable with Doug and Miriam's girls (Lucy and Susannah). I expected Harriet to object, but she did not care. Crystal, on the other hand, had never been so enthusiastic about an idea of mine. Most children have a dream holiday preference for one of the mega-adventure holidays sights, such as Spain's Wild West, France's Disneyworld or Romania's Dracula Park. In Crystal's case it was definitely Dracula Park, but I had had no inkling of this. Miriam, though, who was closely attuned to her own children appeared to know more about my own daughter than I did, which is why we had been invited.

I have lots of snaps of that holiday, taken by snap-happy Miriam, and several good memories. The best are of Bronze laughing and giggling often, whether because Susannah was teasing him, or because of the excitement of the Transylvania helter-skelter or the giant Frankenstein puppet show. Although we spent most of the week in the park, as a group we did a day's sightseeing in and around Tirgoviste. Our guide to the famous ruins of Dracula's Palace told us, in gory detail, how Vlad Tepes, the real life Dracula, became known for his brutal punishment techniques. He relished ordering his enemies to be hanged, skinned, boiled, decapitated, blinded, roasted, hacked and buried alive (the list may have shrunk in my memory over the years). His favourite method was impalement on stakes, hence the surname Tepes, Romanian for 'the impaler'. Having won control of the region, with help from the Turkish, Dracula took revenge on the local nobles for having killed his brother. The older ones were impaled in the palace courtyard while he watched from a high tower above. The younger ones were enslaved to build a new castle at Poenari. Legend has it, the guide added, that Dracula returned to Tirgoviste in 1989 to drink blood from the bodies of the dictator Ceaucescu and his wife after their executions.

On several evenings, Miriam and Doug went out to eat alone leaving me to watch over the motel apartments and our sleeping children. In exchange, I was to have a whole day on my own to explore a bit further afield. Towards the end of the week when the day came, though, Crystal would not let me leave her. She had started out on the holiday friendly enough, excited with expectation, playful, similar to any other kid. But, after three days, Lucy had tired of Crystal's selfish demands (despite Miriam's instructions to 'be nice to Crystal') and finally gave way to a resentful crying fit. Miriam, having felt I was too lenient by far, finally lost her cool and gave Crystal a piece of her mind. Apologising to me later, she defended herself by attacking Harriet, who she had never met. I said nothing. As a consequence of this mid-holiday crisis, I decided to take my moody, thumb-sucking daughter with me on the day-trip, leaving only Bronze with the Turnbulls.

We took a bus to the Dracula centre north of Curtea de Arges from where one can look up and see the spectacular and forbidding Poenari castle built by the ex-nobles under the whip of Vlad Tepes. We could have opted to take the cable car that lifts the very young, the old and faint-hearted through the pine trees, but I decided we should walk the 1,500 steps. It took a long time. I carried Crystal on my shoulders some of the way, and for the rest we stopped every 50 paces so Crystal could rest. She appeared impervious to my irritation at her laziness. Once near the top, however, the stunningly gothic outline of the castle perched on the mountain top revived my spirits, and the narrow bridge across the gorge to the castle itself scared Crystal back into real life, into being there at Poenari instead of swamped in her own psyche. Inside, the thrill of peeking over ledges to witness the sheer drops kept her interest alive. On the way back, she repeatedly asked whether it was 'really really really true' that Dracula's first wife had jumped to her death from the south wall so as to avoid being captured.

I should mention one odd occurrence which may or may not have had a bearing on future events. Of the many rides and entertainments at Dracula Park open to seven year olds, only one had as many as three skulls (five being the maximum for teenage/adult rides) ­ the Vampire's Lair. On the last day, Crystal begged us to let her go on the Vampire's Lair one final time. Lucy and Miriam agreed to accompany her. The ride is little more than a modest roller coaster for 90% of its length. Then it climbs to a maximum height of about four metres and the shuttle car rolls downward smashing through an apparent rock face (a huge heavy material screen) into a dark custom-built cavern and an immense pool of blood (water dyed a frighteningly realistic dark red colour). The car then skims along the surface of the pool, spraying blood out sideways to splash several grotesque life-sized figures on the pool's edge. Carefully placed spotlights light up the faces of the figures, so you can see the blood dripping down. Never mind four or five skulls, the ride should have been x-rated. As chance would have it, on this last occasion, the car, with its 20 or so inhabitants, halted suddenly in the middle of the pool for no apparent reason. While Miriam opened a conversation with her neighbour about the possible causes or consequences of the breakdown, Crystal, somewhat waif-like, wriggled out of her harness, climbed out of the shuttle car and onto the rail board, which in this stretch was just covered in red fluid. She knelt down, and, with one leg, gingerly tested the depth of the pool. Discovering it was only a foot deep, she climbed in and started wading towards one of the plastic statues. Another child shouted 'look at her'. Everyone turned, and, for a moment, Miriam was horrified. Then, at about the same time, an engineer appeared from a corner of the cavern and saw the whole situation. He spoke firmly and carefully in English telling Crystal she was safe, to stay calm and not to move. As he began to stride through the pool to rescue her, Miriam, having realised there was no danger, pulled out a camera and took a flash photo of my daughter. I have it buried in Neil, but I do not need to view it now, nor do I wish to.

I can see her, a miniature figure, dressed in jeans and a pink blouse, her arms slightly splayed out to the side so as not touch the pool's surface, more than knee-deep in a flash-lit carmine sea. Later, Crystal reported she had wanted to know if one of the figures reclining on the pool's edge was alive, and Lucy had dared her to find out. Lucy denied this.

When I told Jay the story yesterday, he asked about Crystal's clothes and whether they had been stained by the blood-water. To my surprise, I remembered that Miriam had washed out Crystal's jeans with her own light-coloured trousers (which had been dripped on) and the red had come out much more readily than she had expected. Jay did ask to see the photo, but Chintz came in with my meal ­ tomato soup and basil soufflé dumplings ­ and I was able to ignore the request.

I wish Miriam had never taken that photograph, and I wish I had never given a copy to Crystal, and I wish Harriet had stopped her framing it, and putting it on display. The image became an icon, one which she employed for several years as a way of reinforcing her individuality and separateness from others.

***

At the Kiev World Summit, which took place during the late summer of the same year (32) before these various trips I have recalled, the world's nations with few exceptions agreed in principle to a major enlargement of the International Fund for Sustainable Development. Ojoru was a prime mover. He had not only strengthened the African Union, but, with much trepidation among Africa's christians, found common cause with the Arab world against the West. Moreover, his domestic and international successes led, during the early 30s, to Benin, Togo and Niger voluntarily becoming, as a result of referenda, part of a renamed Grand Nigeria Federation. (Incidentally, Ojoru also initiated and enabled a commercial and political alliance between Nigeria and Brazil, on the basis of many common characteristics, not least that the two countries dominated their respective continents and should therefore help each other practise leadership. This bilateral bond ­ forged between two great leaders Ojoru and Neco Corazon, or Neco the Prosperous as he came to be known later ­ proved surprisingly powerful over the decades. It helped both countries form a strategic grouping, with China and India, to act as a non-aligned counter-weight to the group of 13 industrialised countries and the Islamic nine. For Ojoru, the link with Brazil, and by extension with all of Catholic Latin America, had the additional benefit of demonstrating his ongoing balanced allegiance to the Christian minority in Nigeria.)

The Kiev agreement covered the following: a revised and more progressive set of principles for the IFSD, and consequently a much wider mandate; for most developed countries, a new and additional contribution based on 0.2% of GDP (i.e. 0.1% less than the proposed 0.3%), with specific smaller percentage contributions for some countries (such as those not deemed rich enough to afford a sudden 0.2% of GDP increase and for those already substantially more generous than the average); a commitment to further increases 'bearing in mind the proposal of the EU for four further additional incremental contributions of 0.2% of GDP and the very heavy burden this would place on the economies of some developed countries'; and carefully defined categories of countries eligible for different kinds and levels of aid. The media busied itself with cries of 'too much' or 'too little'. Right-wing pundits in the US predicted it would be the biggest waste of national resources since the Patterson education reforms. Left-wing analysts, by contrast, likened the Kiev deal to a worldwide Marshall plan which would invest US money with far better return than various 20th century endeavours such as the Vietnam, Korean and Cold Wars, not to mention the most inefficient and misdirected war in modern history ­ the war against terrorism.

For those who have lived as long as I or for those who have a cursory knowledge of history, it may appear odd that I pick out and highlight certain developments and not others. But I gave up being a historian on leaving the London School of Economics, and it would take someone far cleverer than I and with far more time to give a better balance and shape to world events. All I can hope to do in these Reflections is to flit hither and thither in my memory while endeavouring to keep a sense of chronology.

I mention the Kiev agreement specifically because it led directly, within the IFSD, to the formation of Enterprise 35, a group which aimed to bring about the practical application of the agreement by the end of 2035, and to my moving to the Netherlands to be part of the Enterprise 35 team. Jude, my department head, must have been involved in discussions while I was away in Romania, for she called me into her office immediately on my return. She needed to recommend someone to be seconded to Enterprise 35 for two or three years. I was her number one choice but, knowing my domestic situation, she was far from persuaded I could, would or should go. I had three days to think it over before she would need to consider other potential candidates. I put the offer to the back of my mind and worked solidly through the morning.

During my lunch break, I took a bus to Regent's Park and wandered round the boating lake. There weren't many people since it was cold and grey. I decided to consider the job from three angles: work, friends and family. I had discussed with Jude how the move might affect my civil service career, and she had said it was impossible to say. If all went well, it would do me no harm, and my willingness to accept such a big move on request would definitely count in my favour. If, as some suspected, the whole scheme were to become bogged down in disputes, directly or indirectly because so much money was at stake, it could prove tricky to extricate myself cleanly. On the whole, my ten years in the civil service had been rewarding. Even so, I had never escaped the feeling that my work, representing a single nation's interests, was parochial. My experience in the European Parliament had given me a taste of higher objectives. Enterprise 35 offered a chance to get back into an international arena.

Since my dating efforts had failed miserably and I remained very much unattached, there were no significant social obstacles to my leaving London. Thus, I soon narrowed down the decision to one concerning my relationships with Harriet, Crystal and Bronze. I could foresee no hindrance to my travelling back to London every second weekend for a day or two (I should have known better), although I did perceive that my absence might make things more complicated for Harriet. This was because, after our separation, I had proved a useful stand-in for nanny coordination and other duties whenever she was ill or opted to travel on business. Moreover, as I would have no London base of my own and it would be impractical to rely on friends and family, I'd be obliged to utilise Lacey's Lane to spend time with Crystal and Bronze. Regrettably, in making my decision, I never considered my children's well-being, only how the practical arrangements might work in the future. In my defence, I believed they had grown so distant to me that nothing I did could have had any influence on their development. Our week together in Romania had not altered that opinion. Would their lives have been any less distressed if I had not moved so far away? I do not believe so. But then again, I'm fully aware of how capable I would have been of manipulating and moulding the reasons for my actions so as to justify what I actually did, and how those reasons would have been reinforced and set in concrete over time, so as to protect my psyche and, within it, an acceptable picture of myself.

I tried talking to Crystal about the fact that I might move to Holland, without eliciting any interest. Harriet proved supportive. She advised me strongly to accept the job, not for any selfish reason, I'm sure, but because she genuinely considered herself my career adviser. As for the practical aspects, she could not see any insurmountable problems. Bronze had started school that autumn, and the current nanny was reliable and helpful. There would be no problem in me using Lacey's Lane, and, with a modicum of planning, I could organise holidays to cover when she needed to travel. Julie proved less enthusiastic and worried about seeing less of me and her grandchildren. Tom thought it a great idea, and promised that Fragrance and he would visit regularly. As usual, I also sought advice from Alan, although on the professional, not the personal, side of things. Those working in non-governmental organisations, whether involved with development per se, the environment, or both were universally excited about the Kiev agreement, and Alan was no exception. He emailed: 'Go for it. Your talents need an opportunity; and Enterprise 35 needs you.'

By January, I had installed myself in a slightly cramped but well-lit third floor pad (with beautifully polished near-white wood floors) on Weissenbruchstraat, and Enterprise 35 had begun its work in earnest in a rented office a block away from the IFSD building. Pravit Krishnamurty, a brilliant Indian Muslim, only in his mid-40s, who had briefly studied 20 years earlier under Triti Madan, led a staff of 30, some from the IFSD itself but most of them seconded from various parts of the globe. Pravit reported directly to an executive board, made up of two IFSD vice-presidents and several elected foreign and environment ministers, which itself acted on the directions of a steering committee set up under the terms of the Kiev agreement.

Having talked to us all at length, Pravit quickly set about creating teams, team leaders and various programme tasks. Along with an Egyptian academic, who had once been a junior government official, and a maverick South African, I was assigned to a team led by Boris Kiselev, a 60 year old Russian who had already been with the IFSD for several years. The task given to our team was to examine the feasibility of the four further additional incremental contributions (each of 0.2% of GDP) by developed countries giving, as per the formal wording, 'due consideration to the heavy burden this might place on the economies of some developed countries'. Thus, I was not to be in the main stream ­ the heat of the battle, the eye of the coming political storm (as Brian Vetch had once, long ago, described our work on the Euronet Regulation) ­ of Enterprise 35's work but, for want of a better description, in the let's-write-a-fairy-story unit. I took the news badly, and confronted Pravit.

'I haven't decamped from London, moved across the water, and left my children 300 miles away just to sit around contemplating pretty scenarios for the future.' Firey, Brian and Harriet would all have been proud to see me so assertive, aggressive almost. But, truth be told, I had not yet taken my measure of Pravit, and he looked young, not that much older than me. The man smiled thinly, and shook his head ever so slightly as though recognising some mistake of his own.

'Where is the struggle for the future? What battle do we have to win?' His calm manner diverted me almost immediately.

'We need to convince the doubters that the extra money is absolutely necessary and can be spent wisely, or wisely enough; and we need to do so quickly. That's the mission of Enterprise 35.'

'Yes, I agree. But when you say "extra money", what extra money do you mean?'

'The 0.2% of GDP. It has been known for a newly-elected national government to increase a country's ODA by an increment of 0.2% but such a rapid increase has never been agreed across the board, nor have such large sums been channelled to one agency. That seems a big challenge; and I thought I'd come here to work for that.'

'Yes, I am happy that you did. You were very clear about it when we spoke before. You impressed me.' He paused such a long time that I had begun to think I should say something. 'But I see things slightly differently. To my mind, the 0.2% increment is a deal that's done ­ a done deal. Yes, yes, we have to wrap it up well with the fancy paper of political intentions, the strong twine of realistic, practical implementation details, the right address and correct postage. Meaning what? Hah, my flowery English always failed me at Cambridge. Meaning we have to address the package in the right way to the right leaders with the right weight to each. Yes. But that is not the struggle. I see the real struggle as the rest, beyond 35. To me the "extra money" you mention is not this 0.2% but the additional four times 0.2%, the 0.8%. Can we give wider international credence and power to the European Union's vision? Is it possible? Now that is what I call a challenge. And you Kip Fenn ­ such an unusual name, a pleasant one ­ do you want to be a packager or the man who devises the next parcel so astutely that we'll need our packagers long into the future. Hah, excuse my extended metaphor, it always goes on too long.' He paused again. His voice dropped to a confidential tone. 'Furthermore, I must confide, I may need you for higher things. Our Russian friend is dicky.'

Disarmed. In less than five minutes, Pravit had me completely disarmed and turned from a potential renegade into an Enterprise 35 devotee. If I harboured slight suspicions that he had achieved this through charm rather than sincerity, these were completely dispelled a year later when he chose me to take over as team leader. Boris, 'our Russian friend', had spent more time pursuing his private business than those of Enterprise 35 (we made progress despite, not because of, his leadership) and had, eventually, been recalled to Moscow. I suspect Pravit's threats to sack him finally penetrated the Kremlin's thick walls. The replacement, Ninel Horeva, far younger and more committed than her predecessor, became a valuable member of my team. I should mention that she made a simple pass at me one Friday evening, not long after her arrival. I then spent a sleepless weekend terrified that my refusal would undermine the new working patterns I had been striving to establish. But it was a redundant fear stemming from my own insecurity and inexperience. She was as bright as ever on the Monday morning, and, within a few weeks, had hitched herself to a Frenchman working in one of the other teams.

***

I declined Ninel, not because of a lack of attraction, nor because we worked together, but because, by this time, I had fallen in love with Diana.

For several months after arriving in The Hague, most of my weekends were spent either travelling back to London, working or shopping (equipment for my rented flat, a bicycle and a scoot-bike). I did find the time to meet up with Peter de Roo who, with his wife Livia, was living in Amsterdam. After concluding a postgraduate degree in energy economics at LSE, Peter had taken a post in a government agency providing advice to the environment ministry. Livia had completed a postgrad course in fabric science, and was working as a researcher for a large outdoor clothing manufacturer on the outskirts of Amsterdam. They had two children, Rudy and Ulla.

One Sunday, in late April, Peter and Livia invited me to join them on their barge moored at a pretty location not five kilometres from Alphen aan de Rijn, near a lake and a café-restaurant called Stoffers. Unfortunately, the spring weather broke the day before. Cold air and drizzle meant that by the time I arrived a small gathering had collected in Stoffers rather than on the lake shore. After greeting my friends, who gave me a general introduction, I sat down in a spare seat next to a woman dressed in two tones of green velvet. She turned to speak to me. This is where and when I first met Diana.

'You are English?'

'Like Livia.'

'She is Cornish.'

'It's not a separate country yet, I don't think.'

'But it should be. Scotland is a country, but it has no language. Cornwall has a language. It should be a country.'

'I see you've been a friend of Livia's for some time then.' She laughed. Her large hazel eyes, framed in a round cherubic face (I don't know how else to describe it) by a fringe of dark hair and two dangly silver earrings, latched onto mine with playful interest. I grinned back.

'A few years. I have a boat along the bank from Peter's. That's how we know each other. Well, it belonged to Karl, but he went back to Berlin, and I decided not to sell it.'

'And Karl is?'

'Karl was. Karl definitely was.' She had a very good command of English, although with a heavy but, to my ears, attractive Dutch lilt. For an hour or more, as we ate and drank, I let Diana monopolise me with talk about her work in theatre design and her enthusiasm for travel to faraway places. I told her briefly about Harriet and my children. In my limited experience, Diana stood out as an exotic creature, albeit one slightly older than me.

As the afternoon lazed on, Rudy, Ulla and a few other children, who had eaten at a separate table, managed to engage several of the adults in a game of Dump-the-Chump. I knew it well as one of the few games that would hold Bronze's attention for more than a few minutes. Diana proposed we walk along the river. The drizzle had all but halted, nonetheless she carried an umbrella to protect us on our way. She showed me Tic-tac-toe, a converted and motorised snik, beautifully painted. We sat in the narrow galley, drinking the coffee she had brewed and talking about the boat, and then about Karl Engelhard. Somewhat naively, I can say in hindsight, I took it as a sign of friendship and intimacy that she opened up about her relationship with Karl. Over time, during the early years of our relationship, the barge, which was a permanent reminder of the man, became a constant if mild irritation. It was only after we decided to have a child together that Diana agreed, for symbolic reasons if no other, to sell the boat.

On the walk back to Stoffers, Diana suggested we meet for dinner a fortnight hence. She chose a tulip palace restaurant since I'd never been to one ­ which is how we came to be at Keizerskroon the night Caxton was murdered. We had drunk a bottle of wine between us, and Diana had rambled on at some length about Karl again, unashamedly (or provocatively whichever way you care to look at it) revealing fairly intimate details about the sexual side of their relationship. After the news broadcast, I began to explain why I hated Caxton, but I had not thought through where the story would lead. I certainly did not expect myself to go as far as confessing sexual frailties. But I did. I made a full and honest confession about Lola, and about the Daily Truth article. Diana listened attentively, encouraging me to explain more fully. She then asked candidly when I had last been naked with a real woman.

'A long time ago.' I felt as though I was at school again, standing outside the shower room waiting for the door to open.

'A long time ago is too long.'

Like Peter, Diana also lived in Amsterdam although in a very different part, next to the Noorder AmstelKanaal on Jan Van Goyenkade. Her flat, which filled the two uppermost floors of a five storey 20th century building, appeared a wonderland to someone as conventional as me. In the lounge area, exuberant masks and exquisite puppets jostled for space with Indonesian wood carvings and Nepalese weavings. In the large attic space above, which we accessed by climbing a steep ladder, model theatre sets (old, new and half-built) crowded part of the floor space, while framed and unframed photos of theatre stages covered the walls. Pens, paints, crayons, brushes, knives, scissors, tweezers, unused strips of coloured modelling clay, rolls of braid, coloured tapes and twines, jars of buttons and beads, tubes of glue and the rest filled a large set of mailroom-type shelves at the back of a wide, relatively tidy, work area. To one side, a glass desk backed by a sizeable wallscreen held a multicoloured keyboard and computer console.

'Welcome to the world of Diana Oostlander,' she said, before extravagantly removing her ruby bonnet and bowing towards me. 'And now, the bedroom.'

Back on the lower floor, this was a much quieter, calmer room suffused with a sweet scent of vanilla. A large bed, covered in a striking lacy or crochet-style cream bedspread, was placed by a wide low window, giving on to the trees that lined the canal. To one side, on a small table, there was a vase full of tall apricot-coloured lilies. On the other, a huge palm in a square copper-glazed pot stood on the floor. A large mirror and dressing table occupied one corner of the room; a wallscreen (showing an abstract art soother) hung across another; and half of one wall was taken up with built-in wardrobes and cupboards.

'Welcome to the bedroom of Diana Oostlander.'

We returned to the lounge, and she offered me a joint. I hesitantly admitted I never smoked, so she poured us both a whisky instead. I was very nervous and stiff. I imagined that Diana was wondering if she had made a mistake. She fussed around for a while with the console, finally selecting a Louis Armstrong concert to play in the background on sound only, and then disappeared. I sank deeper and deeper into the silky cushions on the sofa, considering when and how I should say goodbye and leave. I may have been asleep or slipping into the music when I felt myself jolted. Diana had joined me on the sofa wearing only a white kimono carrying a trace of the vanilla perfume I'd detected in the bedroom. We kissed, and while we kissed she undressed me; and then she led me through to the shower. There she massaged me with soap, and encouraged me to do the same for her, but I was too tense, too impotent for an erection. Neither could I do much in the bedroom. Evidently, abstinence had not improved my ability to perform. When I tried to use inadequate words to apologise, Diana swore quietly in Dutch.

'Sex is for fun, for pleasure, don't go all English on me. What do you enjoy, what would help, what is your cup of tea? Don't be shy. English men, they are always shy, afraid the world will suddenly collapse when someone finds out they sniffed their sister's nickers once or caught crabs in a Manila brothel or bought a blow-up doll. Don't be shy with me, English man. You've done the tough bit ­ talking. What do you fancy? A striptease. I tell you I'm not very good, and I'm getting self-conscious about my flab. Or some porn. We have some good porn in Holland, maybe you have heard. Maybe this is why you are here.'

How can people be so different? How could Harriet be so different from Diana? How could I be so different from Karl. This plasticity of human behaviour has never ceased to amaze me. Professionally, I have met men and women of many different races and cultures. The religions, customs and patterns of behaviour differ hugely from country to country, and these are often emboldened in our mind by stereotypes. Yet what matters most in personal relationships, whether in a marriage or round the business table, is an individual's character, and this varies most from extreme to extreme within each race and nationality.

And as for falling in love, we understand little more today ­ give or take some inconsequential neuro-psychological science ­ than the great British poets Donne and Shakespeare did 500 years ago. Would I have fallen for Diana without the experience of Harriet behind me? Possibly, probably, given the chance? But, the converse is not true. Without Karl, Diana would not have looked at me twice.

I woke early, my mouth dry, my bladder full, and my head buzzing with emotions, memories of sensations, feelings of satisfaction and anxious projections about the future. I moved quietly through to the bathroom and then to the lounge, where I promptly fell asleep on the sofa. Before nine, Diana had dressed and made us both a milk coffee. We took a tram to Leidsestraat, and, hand-in-hand, walked slowly along Keizersgracht. The sun's warmth meant a light mist hovered over the canal. I remember feeling happier than I had for many, many years. At Leliegracht we cut across to Cafe't Smalle to scoff pancakes on the terrace. It was a restaurant we returned to often in the coming months, until a new owner cheapened the decor and food to attract more students. Afterwards, Diana made some purchases at the cute cheese and organic produce market that hung around the base of Westerkerk, before putting me on a tram back to Central Station.

I had meant to spend the Sunday working, but instead of returning to Weissenbruchstraat I walked a kilometre or so to the Mauritshuis near the parliament, thinking to divert my lively mind with the Vermeer classics that a colleague had recommended I see. It didn't work. I kept thinking about Diana, and particularly about how I should proceed to woo her, not wanting to be too keen, and not wanting to be too English. We had parted without another definite arrangement and I was worried she might perceive me as a one-off entertainment, a show that closed after the first night. On my way out, I noticed that a side room was dedicated to old photos of the Mauritshuis itself and the surrounding area. This gave me an idea. When I got home, I spent hours on the net educating myself about 19th century Dutch photography and downloading onto Neil a menu full of favourites. But it was the Asser photo of Keizersgracht (the one I have already mentioned) that I picked out to print and send by courier to Diana with a note thanking her for such a lovely evening, and promising to call.

A few days later I received, also by courier, an old French postcard with a crude sketch drawn using contours of red and green lines. In the envelope, curiously, there was a square of transparent red plastic. I have the postcard picture on my screen now. It shows a smiling man standing in the sea (right side) looking towards a young agitated woman on the beach (left side). She is dressed in a gown and has a bow in her hair. The card reads: 'Qu'à donc la Baronne à courrir si vite?' (Why is the Baroness running so fast?) When the square of red plastic is placed over the left-hand side of the card, it has the effect of removing the red lines leaving only the green ones visible. The woman now appears naked. She has large breasts and a huge ass (not unlike Diana herself). A new caption says: 'Pourvu que l'on ait rien vu.' (Hopefully, nobody saw anything.) On the back, Diana had written, very lightly in pencil: 'Don't lose the red square English man.' Over the next few months, she sent me a collection of cards from the same set. And she also helped me find a way of copying them onto Neil: after scanning we used art software to separate out the red and green and to create a simple key command for removing the red. I must show them to Chintz later on.

Our love and friendship progressed at a measured pace. It took a few months for us to be comfortable with, and confident in, each other. Thereafter we found a routine which involved me spending part of every other weekend at her apartment in Amsterdam, and us meeting occasionally during the week, perhaps in Leiden for dinner or a film, or, if she was not too busy, in The Hague. I usually made the effort, for my pleasure as much as to support Diana, to be present at any mid-week opening nights, whether in Amsterdam or elsewhere. Occasionally, I would be travelling or too busy at the weekend in which case I opted to sacrifice a tedious trip to London rather than time with Diana. Harriet objected to my inconsistencies and would then make subsequent visits awkward for me. After a while, neither she nor the children noticed if I only showed up once a month. At times, Diana became feverishly busy, even at weekends, spending long periods in her studio engaged in camphone conversations, art work on the screen, or model building. Nevertheless, she would like me there in the apartment. So I would bring papers from The Hague, and read or write in the lounge; sometimes, if the weather was fine, I would walk across to Vondel Park with a report or a problem to mull over. Diana preferred to design for the theatre but, occasionally, took on festival and opera projects when they paid better. During her youth, she had often worked abroad, especially in Germany with Karl; by the time I met her, though, she had become tired of too much movement, and preferred to save her travelling for pleasure.

In the summer after my move to the Netherlands, I returned to England for two weeks, which was the minimum time I could negotiate with Harriet for being in charge of Crystal and Bronze. We stayed with Julie for one week making various excursions to the coast and adventure playgrounds. We saw Tom twice choosing the cinema for our entertainment both times. For the other week, I packed Crystal and Bronze off to an expensive camp while I visited friends and work colleagues. I also took two days for a stay in Bradford to explore the recently-expanded National Photography Museum (with which I was to have a closer association later in my life). This pattern remained similar for most of the 30s, although during one summer I looked after Crystal and Bronze in the Netherlands for two weeks, and, during another, Diana and I suffered a foursome holiday at a rented cottage in Devon. I hate to admit it, these were periods to be endured. Crystal took on a positively antagonistic attitude towards Diana, and, when reproved, slipped all too easily into a Harriet-type sulk, while Bronze lurched from one asthma attack to another with allergy rashes in-between. Assuming I stick to my outline plan, I will have much more to say about Crystal and Bronze in later chapters.

***

Diana and I took our first joint holiday, to Toulouse, in the autumn of the year we met. The following May, to celebrate our anniversary, we signed up for a 15 day group tour to the Andes. Neither of us had been away on an organised tour before, but with so little time (two weeks was the longest continuous holiday I could take) and travelling so far away, it seemed only sensible to make the most efficient use of it. We chose a British company recommended by one of Diana's friends, and were not disappointed by the guide or the itinerary: Lima, Cuzco, Machu Picchu, La Paz, Lake Titicaca, the Andes themselves. Subsequently, Diana employed an Inca motif for one of her play designs; and I added to my Ferrez collection by finding and copying a few early Peruvian photographs, such as those taken by the Courret brothers, Abraham Guillén and Martin Chambi, all roughly contemporaneous with, or slightly later than, Brazil's Marc Ferrez.

On that tour, Diana and I engaged with most of the other participants politely but as infrequently as possible. However, we did choose to spend free time with a Canadian couple, both journalists, from Montreal ­ Ike and Augusta Davidson. Diana and Augusta stayed in touch after the holiday, and, on Augusta's suggestion, we decided to use the same tour company for a similar activity holiday 18 months later to East Timor and the eastern islands of Indonesia. We were lucky to return alive.

There is much about that holiday which I could recall: the Hindu festival and the hot springs on Bali, strange green birds seen during a trek up Rindjani on Lombok, Ike's oddly aggressive tantrum over the mosquito spray on Flores, and our visit to the impressive mangrove plantations in West Timor developed to help with shoreline protection. My purpose, though, in mentioning the holiday is not to provide a travelogue but to lead up to 28 December 2035. We nicknamed the storm, which hit us that night, Cyclone Kip in honour of my birthday which began a couple of hours before the storm's eye. It was not officially recorded as a cyclone, nevertheless it did more damage to East Timor than any other disaster since the Indonesian army had sacked the already ruined country before its independence, more than 30 years earlier. Until global warming started messing with the world's climate, Indonesia had remained largely outside the cyclone zone. Two or three true cyclones had come dangerously close to Timor during the previous decade, but not to the extent of worrying the tour companies.

We lodged in large wood huts, built on stilts, 300-400 metres back from a delightful beach at Osolata. Although appearing traditional, the huts had been built solidly for tourists with glass windows and plumbed shower rooms. When planning these trips, I positively insisted on not taking the budget option, and even Diana, with more experience of travelling than I, would agree that the extra expense could be well spent. That evening, the 12 of us on the tour ate and drank well at a restaurant designed to cater for the tourists staying in the mod-con huts. As the meal progressed, so the wind outside grew in force. Our waiter even closed the shutters; and the restaurant owner told us, with a huge smile, that 'a beeeeg storm' was coming.

Later, Ike, Augusta, Diana and I all linked arms to walk back to our huts through the howling wind and rain. Diana proposed Ike and Augusta return to our hut, but they wanted to get out of their wet clothes and go to bed. Diana and I went to bed too, cuddling together more than usual, but nervously talking about our friends and the laid-back guide, and how good it would be to get back home soon. Suddenly, the door flew open and banged violently backwards and forwards. I had to drag a chest of drawers through the water (which had begun to puddle inside) to ensure the door stayed closed. By the time I'd dried myself and got back into bed, Diana was convinced the house was not only shaking slightly, but beginning to wobble. It felt sturdy to me, but I began to feel it might be safer if we got up and dressed. I collected our passports, money, phonepads and credit cards, placed them in a plastic bag, and put the bag down my trousers. When the eye of the storm came, and with it a peaceful silence, we both drifted off to sleep using sheets and cushions on the cane chairs. Less than half an hour later, I was woken with an almighty bang as a small tree crashed into the side of our wooden verandah. From nothing at all to full force, the storm came back within minutes. I suggested to Diana that we might be safer outside or at the restaurant which had concrete-built walls, but she nodded towards the door which I had barricaded, indicating it would be difficult to get out. Instead, we took our sheets and cushions and struggled to hide under the bed. We had only been there a few minutes when the house exploded.

I remember screaming involuntarily and somersaulting through the air, and simultaneously Diana screaming. Then I must have been unconscious for a few seconds. As I regained awareness, instinctively I lifted my head slightly but the wind was so powerful and carried so much debris (stinging sand, bits of wood) that I pushed my face sideways towards the sandy, muddy ground. I tried yelling for Diana, but had no idea how far my voice would carry over the howling and swishing of the tempest. I could see nothing through the darkness and I was unable to orientate myself relative to the hut or where it had been. Without moving my legs (I was afraid they might be broken and did not want to test them), I groped around with a hand until I caught hold of a heavy piece of wood (which proved to be part of the bed), and pulled this over my head for protection. I continued shouting for Diana until my throat went sore. I was terribly afraid that her failure to hear me or answer meant she might be dead or badly injured. I tried to think through where she might be or what might have happened, and whether there was any means of finding her. Even if I could run through the deadly wind, though, I figured I hadn't the faintest idea which direction to take. I also realised, after a while, that although neither of my legs were broken my left knee was injured and bleeding. As time wore on, the water level rose slightly and I began to shiver with cold. While the raging wind and flying debris continued unabated, I convinced myself that I must have been the lucky one and that Diana and our friends were dead.

I lay there for two or three hours, regularly shouting into the gale and peering into the darkness looking for movement or lights or the shape of a tree, before the wind began to lessen. Several times I thought I heard human voices but when I couldn't hear the same pattern again, I assumed it had been a noise mirage. Only with the first rays of light, and when the wind had quietened to nothing more than a strong gale, did I feel able to try and stand up and ­ with a very heavy heart ­ search for Diana. The gash in my knee stung viciously, and I gave momentary thought to the possibility of infection. But I had to find Diana.

She was no more than 20 metres away, uninjured and, compared to me, in relative comfort. She too had been thrown through the air but not so far. She had held on to a cushion, landed near the mattress and managed to crawl under it. Like me, she had undergone mental torment thinking I must be dead. A few metres away, where the hut had been, a single wall stood crookedly at an angle supported by fallen beams, broken planks and piles of crushed furniture looking not unlike a bonfire prepared for Guy Fawkes night. When I felt down inside my trousers, I was relieved to discover the plastic bag still in place. For a while longer, we lay together under the mattress hugging each other very tightly. Diana kissed me repeatedly as though needing to reassure herself of my living presence, and I couldn't help from saying to myself over and over again 'thank god' as if the words had meaning.

With more light and less wind, we made our way (I hobbling and Diana supporting me) along the debris-strewn walkway, manoeuvring over or round the roots and branches of fallen palms to where our friends had been staying. Although the verandah had gone, the structure of their hut had otherwise remained in tact. Inside, Augusta was shaken, but Ike, whose comic talents were not always appreciated (by me especially), greeted us (or me in particular) with this line: 'I thought you guys were doing something about this stuff.' Only then did he perceive the state we were in and the blood running down my leg. Augusta apologised for her husband and rushed me to the shower room where she had plenty of first aid paraphernalia.

Osolata, and hundreds of other towns and villages across Timor, suffered terrible damage as a result of Cyclone Kip. But, as far as I could find out from enquiries later, only a handful of people died as a direct result of the storm. Obviously, there was huge coverage of the disaster in the East Timorese press. The Indonesian media, though, was not so interested in the plight of the East Timorese people but in whether there might be a trend for tropical storms and cyclones to move west and hit Bali or Java.

In Dili, the following day, and on the plane home, and for weeks after, I thought often about how so much of the damage was local, to villages and local infrastructure, and I wondered how repairs and replacements would be paid for. I imagined that some individuals and small organisations would be clued up enough to seek compensation from the authorities, and that some aid agencies would provide assistance to others. But tens of thousands of individuals would have lost their homes, or their livestock, or their crops, or their possessions, and the vast majority of them would just carry on as best they could, more impoverished than before. I was no stranger to this issue: how to make aid work at a micro level across the globe in millions of villages and rural areas where the poverty, health and environmental problems were at their worst, as opposed to employing the easy option and depositing huge grants on bribe-fuelled inefficient governments willing to kowtow to Western demands.

Fortunately, I never had the wound on my knee stitched. It healed with a two inch scar, and, thereafter, I was able to embellish on my Cyclone Kip adventures whenever it was noticed by friends or family. The adventure firmed up our (or more accurately Diana's) friendship with Ike and Augusta; and, perhaps, it also strengthened my relationship with Diana.

Two days after our return to Amsterdam it was 1 January 36. But this was no ordinary new year's day. It was a Tuesday.

***

Since the influential United Nations report on the state of nations and the emergence of the First Tuesday Movement (FTM), only one new year's day had fallen on a Tuesday, and that, coincidentally, was in 2030, at the start of a new decade. From Buenos Aires to Nepal, from Paris to Manila, from Kinshasa to Oslo, cities across the globe witnessed some of the largest demonstrations in their history. In European metropolises such as Munich, Marseilles and Birmingham there were violent skirmishes between Muslim and Christian hooligans. It was estimated that nearly a billion people worldwide may have marched or protested against their government or multinationals or racism or pollution or poverty. That was the day, though, that led governments everywhere to take serious notice of the FTM: not only did the size and breadth of the protests scare the authorities, but some cities, especially in the developing countries, witnessed widespread looting and a significant number of injuries and deaths.

The FTM did not vanish thereafter, far from it; but, in the subsequent six years, there was no single Tuesday which brought out so many people on a global scale again. There were several explanations for this. Governments certainly succeeded by a variety of means (appeals/propaganda, firm prohibition announcements, far stricter controls, armed police etc.) in reducing the FTM appeal. A few countries with autocratic governments managed to stamp the protests out completely by imposing marshal law and shooting those who ignored it. Moreover, many of the demonstrators, having seen the extent of the unruly behaviour that day, decided not to march again. But, it was widely believed that the main reason for such a mass turnout on 1 January 30 was because of the conjunction of a first Tuesday with new year's day.

The movement itself had no concrete identity. It never had any formal headquarters, nor any leaders; coordination of meetings, marches and protests emerged organically through netsites or inadvertent signalling by the media. Authoritarian attempts to censor the net failed, and often backfired. At the command of the EU's member state governments, for example, the Euronet Agency looked into whether it would be possible to impose a ban on propagating FTM information through Solar, the open Euronet, but concluded it would be impossible to police. Where governments elsewhere did try, their efforts often proved counter-productive and led to bigger and wilder first Tuesday marches than usual.

So, on our return from Timor, the media was full of speculation about what would happen on Tuesday 1 January 36. Everyone who intended to be on the streets was, in effect, a potential FTM propagandist, and there was, therefore, no shortage of media material and advance publicity. In European cities, immigrants of all races and all colours were FTM adherents mostly because they felt, as the working classes had done in the first half of the 20th century, down-trodden; pensioners marched to the FTM tune because, for more than a decade, they had been cheated out of a comfortable old age; and youths were ready to use the FTM banner to protest about anything and everything unfair (unemployment, racism, war and gene technology to name but four targets). In the developing countries, where reasonably democratic governments had failed to silence the FTM, street spokespersons were anxious to rail against the riches of Europe, Japan and the US (especially their governments and businesses) and, like the youths in the West, wanted a fairer world; or else they wished to protest against their own poverty or lack of medicines or government corruption. Many of these would-be protesters could be seen in newsclips wearing the adaptable FTM logo, often with the middle T converted into a gallows hanging the dollar, euro or UN symbol.

Globally, the FTM attracted its biggest ever multitudes that day, and its worst. Looting and violence ­ Triti Madan's predicted 'endemic social terrorism' ­ was the norm, not the exception, in many cities.

In Amsterdam, as usual, crowds flocked to Vondel Park to hear spontaneous soap-box speakers, to sing protest songs and then to bring half the city to a standstill by marching to the Central Station. This time, though, the crowds were tenfold the usual numbers on a first Tuesday, and the marchers managed to cause a huge amount of damage on their way. Two children drowned in a canal. In London, the police used water cannons and plastic bullets to break up massive crowds which had dispersed from the official march routes. Nineteen people died from violence of one sort or another. In Paris, Brussels, Hamburg and many other European cities and towns, inter-racial clashes led to deaths, hundreds of injuries and thousands of arrests. In Cairo, Nairobi, Karachi, Djakarta, Mexico City the ransacking of multinational business premises was the worst it had ever been, and heavy-handed police may have killed up to 1,000 all told. In other cities such as São Paulo, Caracas, Moscow, and Seoul looting under cover of the city-wide chaos caused by the FTM resulted in billions of dollars of stolen goods and damage. Events that day led, eventually, to several requested interventions by the UN and European armies, not least the one that caused the Jamaica Skirmish in 37.

It was in the United States, though, that the most dramatic change between 30 and 36 was evident. The FTM had been slow to build in the US and Canada (partly because the late 20s and early 30s had seen a very slow recovery from recession and unemployment) but by 34-35 the FTM had taken off, fuelled, as in most other Western countries, by youthful disillusionment with capitalist ideals. The under-privileged masses, which in the US were the black and Mexican peoples, joined the protests on 1 January 36 in their millions, protesting partly for themselves but also against their government's arrogance in world affairs. The next day the headlines did not reflect the protesters' objectives but the rioting, looting, violent clashes and deaths. Of the large nations, only Japan and China remained relatively untroubled, but then they were among the countries to suffer most from the suicide epidemics a little later in the 40s.

New year's day 2036 day proved to be the FTM's zenith. Spontaneous first Tuesday protests continued around the world for many years but never again to the same extent.

***

The year 35 had come and gone without Enterprise 35 achieving its goal - a fact that had certainly provoked FTM protesters on new year's day 36. No-one, though, could blame Pravit Krishnamurty. He was a slave to the cause, and inspired most of his staff, including me, to be the same. The problem, inevitably, came from politics and the interplay of demands by various important donor or receptor governments. In the autumn of 34, there had been a follow-up meeting of world leaders aimed at transposing the Kiev agreement into reality. As a result, they had publicly promised to reach a conclusion the following November (35) in Vancouver. Secretly, or in the fine print of the preparatory accords, though, they had made so many contradictory demands that a deal looked doubtful. We all worked feverishly towards the Vancouver summit. Some weeks it appeared as though Pravit never left the (state-of-the-art) cam-conference room, having to listen and negotiate with so many different factions. There was less pressure on my own team because, whereas the others were engaged in preparing financial and legalistic detail for a formal agreement on how to spend the extra 0.2%, we had only to draft a set of recommendations.

Vancouver proved an embarrassing failure for the European proposal, the UN, and for the IFSD in particular, not because Enterprise 35 couldn't deliver, but because certain countries (the US, Germany, Japan, Russia, Nigeria and Brazil) were at loggerheads over several basic issues, and because of a serious stand-off between the Christian and Muslim worlds. A decision was stalled and a new summit scheduled for the following autumn in London.

I believe the United Nations would have reached agreement in London on the primary issues without the FTM chaos of 1 January 36 but, possibly, it might not have responded so positively to my own team's recommendations for future expansions. Under cover of the laborious and aggressive bargaining on details surrounding the committed 0.2%, my group had quietly beavered away with our hugely ambitious and optimistic plans to transfer four times as much money again from the rich to the needy. In this respect, Pravit proved to be an inspired strategist. While he consistently pandered to the IFSD executive board on the main issues vis-à-vis the initial 0.2%, knowing that its members were simply reflecting the views of their national governments which were, in any event, being played out at all the negotiating conferences, he managed to minimise their attention to the drafts of my report. Naturally, the executive board, and the steering committee did examine my team's work from time to time, and, at the summit preparatory meetings, we were always fully exposed to every nation's negotiators. Nevertheless, through Pravit's management, we managed to press forward in a kind of camouflaged ideological haze in which no rich nation wanted to be seen as anything less than beneficent towards the future well-being of the planet, so long as no real final commitments were at stake.

To divert for a moment to the personal, I wish to recall a particularly gruesome encounter with Rike Thomas, the oily man from the overseas aid section of the UK's Department of External Affairs. Not needing to contact him regularly was one bonus of my leaving the Department of the Environment, not that oily people didn't grease my Enterprise 35 office on a near daily basis. In private, Rike may have been an agreeable person but, somehow, he got up my nose more than most. When I was at Shropshire House, he would beg favours or ask for information, and demand to take me out for lunch or a drink in recompense. He gossiped continually, and had a childish name-dropping habit. He must have been good at his job, or how else would he have survived in it for so long. Unfortunately, after moving to The Hague I didn't lose sight of him completely because, on some issues, he was involved, as the UK's representative, in preparing the EU's input into the Enterprise 35 process. Prior to one meeting at our offices, he called to invite me to lunch. When I declined politely, he said he had a 'message' for me, and insisted on a private meeting. I gave way and agreed to a light snack at Jaspar's, near the gloriously nicknamed 'tits and penis' town hall. I ordered and ate quickly while Rike rambled on about how his wife's horse shared the same stables as a horse ridden by the wife of a cabinet minister; and how, unusually, he had actually been present at a meeting with John Lyndquist, the prime minister, and so on. I wasn't really listening until, through Jaspar's hum of banter, some words came into focus.

'... and, so you see, His Majesty's Government, HMG, your paymaster, is calling you to service. It's an honour really.'

When I got to the bottom of Rike's meaning, it wasn't so much an honour I uncovered but a threat. I was being leaned on to tone down the scale of Enterprise 35's ambitions. Rike suggested there might be a senior civil servant's job waiting for me 'back home' if I did as advised, but that if I was 'stupid enough not to listen' I would make 'a lot of important people unhappy'. My secondment to Enterprise 35 might be brought to a swift and unpleasant end, Rike warned. Even today, thinking about the snake makes me squirm. I never discovered how much he personally had elaborated on the 'message', but it was a clumsy and ill-judged manoeuvre. I knew the left wing of the Conservative Alliance could never have approved it (this Horace confirmed later by talking to his friend Terrance Spoon); and the Green Party, which was also part of the governing coalition, would rather have left the coalition than be involved in any attempt to weaken the IFSD. In short, the UK's finance minister, a Lyndquist loyalist positioned well to the right within the Conservative Alliance, had become alarmed by the latest draft of my team's report, and perceived a real danger that Pravit's tactics, especially after 1 January 36, might eventually lead to a yet bigger drain on the UK government's purse. One of his over-keen advisers had then worked up a ploy or two.

The main reason I mention this unsavoury episode is because I decided, as I was walking back from Jaspar's to the office, that I would, when the time was right, seek a permanent posting with the IFSD.

At the London summit, in October 36, the Western world agreed on all the myriad conditions and parameters for most developed countries to provide within three years an additional 0.2% in overseas development aid, half of it directly to the IFSD. The recipient countries, for their part, all made further commitments to deal with corruption and inefficiencies, to spread the incoming wealth to rural areas, to open up ownership and trade rights, and to tackle crime against foreign-owned property.

Astonishingly, moreover, the London summit participants signed up to a further total increase of 0.5% in two stages, raising the level by 0.25% each, starting in 39. While the wording on this was not as firm and committed as the Kiev agreement had been on the first 0.2%, it was still far more than most commentators expected after the Vancouver failure.

'What do you British say? Hah, I have it. Bingo,' Pravit whispered to me in a corridor when he knew for certain the content of the agreement. 'I believed, in my heart of hearts, there would only be one further increment of 0.2% ­ not so much work for the packagers. And now look how well the gods have treated us.'

The gods indeed. He might have been referring sarcastically to the world's leaders or to the fact that the 0.5% deal came largely as a result of growing religious (Muslim-Christian) conflict in Africa, Central Asia and Europe, which stemmed, the Arab/Africa lobby believed, from the odious inequality of riches. There is no doubt that the worldwide FTM disturbances at the start of the year contributed to the Arab/Africa cause, as did the escalating climate problems which regularly seemed to kill so many more poor people in poor countries than rich people in rich countries.

I am tempted to go on at length about the work my team did, and the content of the 0.5% deal, but this is a matter of public record and the UN's archives surely contain our final report delivered to the London summit. Besides, I have more to write about the IFSD in the next chapter and my role therein. Suffice it to say that the original European Union proposal to raise development aid by 1.1% in five stages (the initial 0.3% and four further increments of 0.2% each) had been whittled back to a 0.7% increase in three steps (an initial 0.2%, followed by two further increments of 0.25% each), but that, nevertheless, the Kiev and London agreements together constituted one of the UN's greatest ever achievements.

After the London summit, Enterprise 35 was disbanded, and most of the seconded staff offered permanent posts within a new 'future policy division' created to prepare the way for the next two expansions. I was recalled to Shropshire House for a meeting with the Department's most senior official and Jude Singleton. Rike Thomas's threat clung to me like an irritating boil that demanded squeezing but wouldn't subside, so I expected to be told I had let my country down and other disagreeable things. In fact, the reverse was true. My seniors had anticipated that I would want to stay on at the IFSD and were ready to entice me back with a grand lunch at Jude's club, and a significant promotion to section head (overseeing the environmental health of the country's waterways) within the Department. It would have been impolitic to refuse on the spot, so I said I would consider the offer. I took the opportunity, though, to gossip about Rike's dirty stick-and-carrot in the hope that the story might be spread round.

Half-jokingly and half-deviously, I tested the job offer on Pravit. He had been appointed director of the newly-created future policy division, and was in the process of devising its structure. He had already invited me to be a unit head, but I was still officially a British civil servant.

'Pravit, I've been offered an excellent post in the UK's Department of the Environment. Do you think I should take it?'

'I have been thinking about you Kip. Are you well?'

'Yes.'

'Are you happy here in the Netherlands?'

'I could be happy in London too,' I lied, thinking about Diana.

'And me. Am I happy?'

'I hope so. Enterprise 35 achieved more than you dared hope.'

'You know and I know it is not enough. It will never be enough. We can only do our best. But that is not why I am unhappy at this minute.' He looked very serious, almost forlorn. I couldn't tell whether he wanted me to speak, and there was a long pause before I responded.

'Why are you unhappy, Pravit ?' Suddenly and transparently, his expression lifted.

'I cannot decide who should be my deputy director.' A pause. 'The hints come from above and from the side, but I plan to make up my own mind, be my own man, as you British say. And then, finally when I make up my mind, the very person I have chosen ­ a highly intelligent thinker, a loyal colleague, a hard-working efficient administrator, and a nice fellow to boot ­ tells me he is leaving. If you can be happy in London, then, Kip, you must go. Yes you must go. Hah. You never know where you are with the British.'

Thus I became a UN employee, and stayed one for the best part of 30 years.

***

Flora has been absent for the last few days. I thought she might have had a relapse and been confined to her charpoy (which she insists on calling it, though her bed is nothing like one), but she just whirred in, and talked with such excitement I thought she might fall out of the Easy. She wanted to tell me about a stream of unexpected visitors (how does she cope with them?): some maharajah she had once known, and his daughters, visiting the UK; a great-grandson over from California; and the daughter of a niece who wanted to record her talking about her life history.

'I said no, no, no, my name's not Kip Fenn. And I dislike her intensely, she only suggested it because she wants me to remember her in my will.' And then, forgetting my low tolerance threshold, she prattled on about life in India with her husband, an expert in pharmaceutical manufacturing processes, 50 years ago or more. I closed my eyes until I heard her hum away.

And Tom slipped into my mind.

I want to conclude this chapter by introducing Guido, but before him, I need to give my father, Tom, a send-off. The last film we saw together was on my 38th birthday. During the afternoon we took Crystal and Bronze to one of the West End superscreens to see Aaron Lambert's Marcella's Bullet. There had been the usual commercial hype but, despite this, the film had attracted rave reviews. There were long queues to buy popcorn and to enter the auditorium. Unusually, both my children were content at the choice of film, and even I was interested to see what all the fuss was about (having missed the first Marcella film and only see one of Lambert's early adventure flicks). Marcella was billed as a modern female version of Batman, James Bond and Pacific Prince all rolled into one. Having inherited a fortune from her corrupt father (lots of flashbacks and opportunities for side plots), she had become a special private detective helping the unfortunates of New York gather evidence against their rich oppressors. In several of the stories (Marcella's Bullet and Misty Marcella for example), the International Police Authority persuaded her to close her Harlem office for a week or two and help them unravel a complex plot against the world, or capture some colourful villain. The formula worked splendidly, partly because Lambert was a genius storyteller, and partly because Lyra Hampton (who needs no introduction, even to youngsters today) brought intelligence, compassion, a touch of Irish humour and a cartoon sexiness to the role. Tom loved it. Crystal was inspired enough to forget to sulk afterwards and complain precociously about Marcella being nothing like a real person. And Bronze kept asking questions because the plot had been over his head. After milkshakes, we took the children back to Lacey's Lane; and then Tom and I went on to have an Indian meal in Willesden Green. He looked grey and tired; and he hadn't taken much care of his dress. He told me Fragrance had walked out on him and filed a legal suit for alimony. I guess, in retrospect, she killed him, she and drink. He certainly drank heavily that night ­ drank and coughed. I decided to go back to Epsom with him rather than stay in Harriet's lounge on the sofa-bed (the bad memories were overpowering) or return to Julie in Godalming. He fell asleep in the taxi, and I had to manhandle him into the house. The next morning, he apologised on his way to the loo, and then went back to bed. He was sleeping when I left.

A few weeks later, he called to tell me he'd had a heart attack and been admitted to Kingston Hospital. I took an early evening flight, and spent the night in Godalming. In the morning, Julie, who hadn't seen Tom for ten years but carried a dim torch for her ex-husband, wanted to come too. Tom was dozing when we arrived, but a nurse explained he had advanced cardiomyopathy. A doctor advised heart surgery. We waited 20 minutes or so until he stirred. Once fully awake, he was in good humour; seeing Julie, though, gave him a shock.

'Bloody hell! Have I passed to the other side?' But it was said with a touch of the old charm, and he followed it up with warm words. I could see he was genuinely delighted to see her. He confessed that he had no intention of agreeing to any surgery. 'Never trusted doctors, and no intention to start now,' he said with conviction.

Julie drove the two of us back to Godalming, and then I borrowed her car to return later in the day and spend another couple of hours with him. He had become maudlin, morbid almost.

' "I see earth, it's so beautiful." They were the first recorded words spoken by a man in space. And then, in his statement afterwards, Gagarin said, "There was a good view of earth which had a very distinct and pretty blue halo. It had a smooth transition from pale blue, dark blue, violet and absolutely black. It was a magnificent picture." I've been wondering if life's a bit the same. Gagarin missed out the dark blue and violet, but me I've been there. And now I'm heading for the black.' He closed his eyes for a few seconds before slowly drawing out the familiar words, 'Well fucking say something.' But before I had chance to offer my usual rejoinder, he carried on with another Gagarin story, as if to cheer himself up.

'Did you know that in the official Soviet records there is no mention of Gagarin using a parachute ejection system, although he ejected at seven kilometres above the earth's surface to avoid the deadly impact of the capsule landing. The international aviation rules at the time stated that a pilot had to remain in his craft from launch to landing. Officially, he could have been disqualified from his record.' Tom loved this piece of trivia. 'He died, you know, before Armstrong got to the moon. I hope I don't go before Martian Seven.' I reassured him that he had many years to live. A taxi would be taking him home the following day, he said, and he'd be fine. It sounds corny, but I gave him a kiss on the cheek before I left, not because I didn't expect to see him again, but because he had appeared so sad, so vulnerable.

Four weeks later, his local doctor called me, as next of kin, to inform me that he had died from a massive coronary earlier that day. He had been sitting in his car about to go somewhere, and a neighbour watching from a window had seen him slump over the steering wheel.

The funeral took place at Croydon Crematorium. Wreaths, a few warm words and he was gone. Julie and I were the only two truly mourning. Harriet came with our children; Fragrance was there with a boyfriend, although she never spoke to me; and there were a few colleagues from Euroil. His will left bequests of 10,000 euros each to Crystal and Bronze, and the rest to me. After expenses and duties, and a negotiated deal with Fragrance, I inherited around 300,000 euros. I spent more than a quarter of it to launch Tom's ashes into space. The extortionately priced package came complete with an elaborately framed certificate and a three minute camclip of the moment the ashes were released into space (a view of planet earth behind). It was an irrational gesture for which I offer no explanation. Harriet thought it was madness, but Diana, who only ever worried about money in terms of the budget a director had given her, said I had surprised her ­ which was a compliment. I have the recording on Neil, and I've asked Jay to save it with all the rest of the family paraphernalia for future generations.

***

Guido. Here, on my screen, is a photo of him, aged but three weeks. He is wearing a bright blue all-in-one, centimetres too long for him in the feet. And here is one of the Guido co-op standing atop Peter's barge. It was Guido's fourth birthday, in December 42. Guido himself, who is perched on a raised hatch, is wearing a dark suit, a white bow-tie, and a top hat. (Diana loved dressing him up when he was young enough to put up with it.) Behind him, the four us ­ that's Peter, Dominique (Diana's younger sister), Diana and me ­ are all leaning slightly back in an arc and pointing fingers at Guido as if to say 'you're the man' or similar. I have a camclip from the same day of Guido making paper aeroplanes, and Dominique's two older children looking decidedly unimpressed. I do not like to view it, though, because it always brings Dr Jessop to mind. There is a moment in the camclip when Guido's face is at a half angle to the camera. The first time I saw it, I was reminded of someone, but I couldn't think who. The image of Guido stuck with me for days until I woke in the night startled by a dream in which I had gone to a doctor's surgery and seen a framed camstill of Guido standing on the doctor's desk.

But this is my favourite photo: Guido, at five and a half years of age, and I holding hands and laughing while running down a grassy hill towards the camera. It was taken, with Diana's camera, on the English South Downs by Veronique, Mireille's older sister, in June 45. I almost decided not to mention this photo now because it will be too complicated to explain, yet here I am delving back (or forward whichever way you care to look at it). Straightaway I should explain that Guido married Mireille, some 20 years later. Veronique and Mireille (16 and seven years old respectively at the time) were the daughters of Didier and Helene Rocard, a Parisian couple involved in the theatre, who were among Diana's closest friends. Veronique had recently arrived in Brighton for a long summer of English study, and Diana had arranged for us all to meet on the West Pier. On the second day, Veronique, Guido and I went for a walk on the South Downs, while Diana stayed behind to discuss a future project with a director at the famous Candyfloss Theatre. (This bit of business, which never progressed, having only been arranged by Diana to help us self-justify the brief excursion across the Channel.) Before Brighton, we had been to Southampton, where my old friend Horace Merriweather had won a fifth election victory. After making his first celebration party in 27 (with Harriet), I had missed the following three, and there was no pressing reason for me to go to this one in particular either, other than that Horace had especially urged me to be there. Perhaps this was because I had recently taken over from Pravit as director and the UK media had highlighted my appointment, or because he wanted to show off his recently-acquired grand house or his new (and discreet!) partner. (I should stress that, by then, Arturo had moved out of Horace's Camden Town pad ... This is making no sense. I knew the photo would lead me places I do not yet want to go.) In any case, the timing of the journey was good for Diana and me. After Horace's party in Southampton, we visited Julie, who by then had opted to follow her mother's route and retire in Parsonville, before heading to Brighton for a couple of days. Driving on towards Dover, at the end of our short holiday, we heard on the radio that prime minister Terrance Spoon (of the Progressive Party which was still the dominant partner within the Conservative Alliance) had appointed Horace as minister for business. This was his first (and last) government job.

Viewing these photos, however, is a digression from my main purpose of introducing Guido. On returning from London in November 36, after the meeting with Jude, I announced the job offer to Diana as though I were seriously considering it (just as I would to Pravit a day later) ­ which I wasn't. Diana's immediate reaction was one of indifference; she wanted to talk about the weekend's arrangements. When I admitted, later in the evening, that I had no intention of going back to work for the UK civil service, she got angry with me for playing games.

'Go, stay, I don't care,' she said, barely containing an edge of spite in her tone as well as her words. This hurt, and I was left for days reassessing the nature of our relationship. It had been about three years since we'd met, and, I believed, we had established something firm and real between us. On the rebound from Karl, Diana appreciated my stability and loyalty, my grounding in the 'real world', and, I suppose, my intellect. Karl, a successful German theatre director who dabbled in film, had been instrumental in Diana's own creative development, but he had also abused her professionally once too often. In their personal relationship, he had played fast and loose with her love, and left her several times for young actresses. For my part, I adored Diana. Whereas my time with Harriet had been like a promised feast with nothing to eat, life with Diana was a rich picnic full of sumptuous tastes and unexpected delicacies ­ although not one without its ants and wasps to contend with.

Sex was one irritating problem, Karl was another. Sex had always been an important part of Diana's life and, with effort, we enjoyed each other. But we did not have the need or passion to make such an effort very often. Despite her liberal attitude to pornography, for example, it was only acceptable to Diana intermittently (whereas it remained a minor but regular part of my private life). Cannabis (which I would take occasionally) and drink helped, but even so Diana made the running. She grumbled about this, which led occasionally to me sounding off about being in Karl's shadow. Too many conversations ended with some reference to him, or Diana's past. Moreover, Diana was far less intellectual than Harriet so I missed being able to discuss my work in any depth. But, as I say, life with Diana was a glorious picnic. For her, though, life with me must have seemed quiet and placid, and a welcome relief from being caught up in Karl's nervy unpredictable domain.

Some weeks after the 'I don't care' argument, when I had already signed my new United Nations employment papers, I began to consider moving to a larger and better situated apartment. Thinking I could reassure Diana about my love and commitment to her, I tentatively asked if she had ever thought we might live together some day. Again Diana put the conversation to one side, not wanting to be diverted from some creative process or other. A few days later, though, a small package arrived at my Weissenbruchstraat pad. It contained a British postcard from the 1950s of a man sitting on a chair with a baby lying across his lap. Here it is on my screen. The man, who has a cigarette hanging out of his smiling mouth, is in the process of tying up the baby's nappy. On the floor stands an upturned red lady's hat adorned with a yellow ribbon. There is something dark and indiscernible inside the hat. Behind the man, a woman in a dark green dressing gown is screaming, 'Don't give me guff! You knew damn well that was my new hat!' On the back Diana had written in pencil, 'What's guff?' And the package contained a paperback entitled Co-ops ­ a better way to bring up children?. My immediate reaction was to imagine that Diana was pregnant but, after a moment or two, I realised she would not have told me this way. Instead, she was enlarging my question about living together into a much bigger one. Although she had never talked about it, I had no trouble in under-standing why she had not opted for motherhood (Karl). I had also noticed that, unlike some women of her age, she had not positively decided against having children. Most of the time I had found her neutral and unopinionated on the subject. I emailed her that same morning. If I embroidered my language a little, it was surely because I'd taken on some of her ways, some of her confidence in our relationship. I received a reply before midday.

Having made the huge decision to have a child at the age of 43 (in fact she was 45 when Guido arrived), Diana spared no effort in making sure everything functioned properly, if I can put it that way, during her fertile spells. When her first two or three periods came, she did not mention them; but, by the time of the fourth, she had begun to express disappointment and concern, which soon turned into anxiety, and visits to the doctor. I thought she was being unreasonable, but logic did not work well on Diana. Moreover, she had had two abortions when younger, and she knew several women who were unable to conceive.

Although I had agreed to the idea of a co-op for our child (when and if she became pregnant), I continued to suggest we look for somewhere to live together. Diana, who had wanted to wait until she was pregnant before making a commitment on this, changed her mind in the spring of 37. Her sister Dominique, with children herself, suggested it might help in some way to prepare her psychologically for conceiving.

By August, we had moved into a modern-looking three storey semi-detached house in Leiden, 25 minutes walking (less than ten cycling) from the train station. We had looked at older traditional properties, and if Diana had insisted on one or if we had found a house suitable for our joint purposes, we would have taken it. But this one, on Oldwijkgaarten, won both our hearts. It was part of a 12 house (six building) complex built around a large green with car parking terminals on its outskirts. To arrive at the front doors it was necessary to walk through the communal garden, past the complex's central wind turbine with a kids' climbing frame around the base. Each building, individually designed with silver-coloured solar energy glass (a precursor of s-glass) and charcoal grey absorption tiles, had two private secluded gardens (one for each dwelling) accessed from the lounge areas at the back. I could afford the mortgage for the house on my salary alone, so Diana opted to keep her Amsterdam pad and rent it out (in case things didn't turn out well between us). After two years, though, she sold it to the tenant, and took over part of the capital and mortgage base on the Oldwijkgaarten house.

Inside our new home, there was sufficient space to allow Diana and me separate areas: Diana took the two top storey rooms for her studio (with the door between them removed), we took a bedroom each on the middle floor, and allocated the third room to our unborn child. On the ground floor, I took the eating room as my office (we usually ate in the kitchen or, with guests, in the lounge). The private garden was ­ what shall I say? ­ petite, but had been carefully tended with mature fragrant roses, miniature fruit trees (apple and plum) and attractive clematis climbers on the border fences.

It is possible that Anders was conceived the first time we made love in the house, but, even if he wasn't, Dominique's advice worked, whether it was prophetic, salient or serendipitous.

But, life rarely offers such an easy ride. E