A FEW years ago

I found myself at a literary festival, at which I was due to promote something or other I’d written. I noticed Sara, an old acquaintance, was also there, peddling a book of hers called A Book Of Silence. Before I make a speech, I like half an hour or so of silence to collect my thoughts and calm my nerves. But on this occasion, as I sat in the Green Room, concentration became impossible as the unmistakable corncrake tones of Sara could be heard from the other side of the room, loudly asking her publicist about future gigs, interviews and the like — all to promote the virtues of silence. It was a moment of unconscious comedy comparable to the time Lord Longford went into Hatchards bookshop in Piccadilly to complain that they were not displaying his latest book in the window. The title of the book was Humility.