Roger watched her go, and so did several others.Just then a taxi pulled up outside the Members’ Entrance. The occupant got out, tipped, and was rewarded with a blatant fistful of blank receipts. It was Felix Thomson, who had spent the last few minutes sitting in the back while rubber-gloved officers subjected the taxi to prostatic indignities, scoping and palping for bombs, and gazing with dental mirrors at the undercarriage.‘Ah, Felix,’ said Roger, and they adopted attitudes as transparently insincere as Molotov hailing Ribbentrop.‘My dear fellow,’ said Felix, shaking his grey locks.‘And how is Felix this fine morning?’‘Felix is little short of superb,’ said Felix.‘I saw your proprietor the other night,’ said Roger, who knew how to irritate a journalist.‘Ah,’ said Felix, and made a face of holy hypocrisy, like a cardinal discussing the health of the Pope.‘I think I should let you know that he thinks the media are a seething mass of mushy-minded anti-American pinkos, especially on his own papers.’‘You amaze me.‘Not that you’ll be doing any of that anti-American stuff today, not in your sketch.’‘I’d sooner be dead,’ said Felix.‘The usual knockabout?’‘Good, clean fun.’‘Tremendous.’Felix had turned to go, fishing for his press gallery pass.
