I said to Chris the other evening that I wondered what had happened to our friend in New York, Lionel Wilson. We hadn’t heard from him in quite a while, probably not since his lifelong lover Paul Glover died. Paul’s death was expected considering he chain smoked and consumed a great deal of alcohol and I don’t think he had worked in a long while which meant he hung around the apartment doing very little with himself. The only exercise he got was to take the dachshund, Anastasia known as Stasi out for the necessary which also involved calling in at the nearest bar. Stasi always got so excited at seeing a visitor she invariably rolled over on her back and pissed herself. We met originally when Paul was the choreographer on the Paris production of the musical SWEET CHARITY in which Chris was a cast member. Paul was assistant to Bob Fosse on the original production hence his involvement; really to reproduce Fosse’s work. Later he and Lionel visited us in London and I remember we took them on a scenic drive through leafy Suffolk, the journey accompanied by oohs and aaahs. They visited an antique shop and bought a pair of Staffordshire poodles. The apartment on E 79th, not over large and fairly dark but very comfortable was always our home from home whenever we were in New York. It was also home to New York’s roaches no matter how many times they got the pest controller in. Lionel said he couldn’t wait to show me Times Square and when he did my reaction was, ‘Is that it?’ Big disappointment. But then one can say the same of Piccadilly Circus really. Unlike Paul who really couldn’t have cared less, Lionel was a health freak indulging in all the dietary peccadilloes of the period: no salt, no eggs, no butter, etcetera. Anyway, out of curiosity if nothing else I went to Google – isn’t Google amazing? Is there anything you can’t ask? – and according to Google Lionel Wilson, writer/actor died at the age of 79 so that would have been a couple of years ago. It also meant we now have no friends left in New York, no home from home as it were. Andy Leech (someone else we haven’t heard from for years) and his lover live in Queens which is the closest to the city. It was inevitable I know with the passing years. I read somewhere once that if, at the age of seventy or more you can still count on half a dozen friends of forty or so years back you can consider yourself very lucky. Well I guess I am lucky because even with all the deaths, some of them far too young (think of AIDS) I can still count up to at least fifteen and possibly more.
So, still on the subject of friends, I do not know what we have done to deserve this but when I was in hospital earlier in the year a friend in Munich insisted on depositing a fairly healthy sum of money in our bank account, medical expenses even with national insurance being what they are. Also a friend in Athens who thrust a fistful of notes into Douglas's protesting hands and refused adamantly to take them back despite Douglas's protestations. Now with Douglas in hospital in England, friends in Melbourne have done the same and yesterday a Christmas card arrived from New England with a cheque for $200. These gifts were never solicited or asked for or expected. I have not mentioned names only because I wouldn’t know if these wonderful friends would want it but in the face of such generosity I can only feel gratitude and very humble.