or at any rate in what are called the small hours. Philip and I  walked home from dinner in Chelsea, hand in hand like children. The mist that rose 0from the river  was as thick as milk and we navigated by street lights , their glow as huge as lollipops. At the bottom of Northumberland Avenue we were challenged by a policeman who fell  in step with us , a magnificently amiable giant. We parted in Trafalgar Square, Constable Crouch  having advised me to bathe the feet daily in a bowl of  porter and mustard seed.  There was in his opinion nothing better  for what he called a perker-upper before pulling on a boot. He accepted a cheroot  from Philip but crushed it to fill his pipe  and walked off in a wreath of pale blue smoke. I blush to add that the evening continued  just as magically when we got home.