26 February 2016, 10 am
I return to London. Mr Davies meets me at King’s Cross looking very much the worse for wear. I have no sympathy. He should not have thrown that massive party last night, whether or not it was disguised as an OGM, and in particular he should not have turned it into a tequila drinking competition. He reminds me that after last year’s East of England regional meeting, I did not get to bed till 4 am and felt ever so slightly fragile doing my meet-the-members visits the following day. I could not even face the biscuits I was offered. We agree not to pursue this conversation any further. So I talk to him about other things instead. Proper, grown-up things such as any President and Chief Executive might discuss, to do with regulation and the lease on 95 Chancery Lane and the Journal and next week’s Council meeting. And he looks not the remotest bit interested in any of it. I gently push him onto an underground train and prop him up against a pillar, hoping I can get him to our 12.30 appointment without having to turn him on his side and roll him there.
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