Hardly reticent, was it?’
‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting,’ I say.
‘You adore what I’m suggesting,’ says Penny. ‘The trouble is that you won’t admit to it.’
Penny is utterly wrong, of course. I have always taken the greatest care never to place myself in a position which might sully the gift of virginity which I intend to bestow on my one day Mr Right. However, as regular readers will know, I believe that virginity is very much a state of mind. As long as one was not responsible for one’s actions or undertook them for reasons unconnected with sexual gratification then one cannot be said to have ‘lost’ one’s virginity. It is as simple as that. Thankfully, for my own peace of mind, I cannot think of one occasion in which I have betrayed the trust that my future husband will surely place in me. Some people may say that I am being fussy and old-fashioned in these free and easy times but I think that if you have principles you should stick to them.
‘I don’t wish to pursue this particular line of conversation,’ I say, coldly. ‘What precisely do you intend to do with your diploma?’
‘I’m going to put it to work, of course. One might as well have a stab at the secretarial life. If I’d have thought about it I could have got you one too.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I say. ‘Still, I don’t see what practical good it would have done me. I’m still not going to be able to take shorthand or type decently even if you give me half a dozen diplomas.’
‘No, darling,’ says Penny. ‘But at least they would get you through the door, wouldn’t they? I’m certain one would pick it up in no time under actual working conditions – jumping jehosophat! I’ve just thought of something: Uncle Jack!’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I ask.
‘He’s one of Daddy’s brothers who owns an advertising agency. He doesn’t have a lot to do with it now but I’m certain he could find us a job.’
‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ I say, wearily.
‘Well, you never think of your relations, do you? – not if you can help it. Anyway, the training will have done us some good. We can’t be completely useless, can we?’
I am not so certain and it is with heavy heart that I subsequently approach the impressive building in a square off Piccadilly that houses Breach, Sully, Crush and Reckitt – or B.S.C.R. as they are more widely known in the profession. I can see lots of people hurrying about behind the huge expanses of glass and there is something terribly intimidating about the sight of so much activity. It is like looking inside an ants’ nest. I wish Penny was with me but she is attending a wedding in Norfolk – as maid of honour. Really, I am not one to point the finger but it does seem a little like Jack the Ripper introducing the Magic Roundabout.
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