Change afoot

Saturday, January 12th., Cadogan Square, London.

I went yesterday morning to a smallish second-hand furniture shop (authentic antiques) in Basil Street. A tall gentleman in charge and alone there. He apologised for a certain untidiness, and said that his partner was even more untidy than he was himself. I didn't see the partner but I guessed that there was no love lost between them. A tall man, conventionally dressed, tail coat, striped trousers. Perfect manners. Evidently a gentleman, insofar as I understand that term.

He gave a twinge and apologised in moving some furniture. We had a short discussion comparing the varieties of back pain; mine is rather 'tender' at the moment. Said his was rheumatism, caught in Bolshevist Russia. Rather implied that he held the Bolsheviks to blame. Man probably about 45 -48. Biggish nose. In moving some more furniture he let a cut-glass jug slip off a table, but I caught it as it fell. Excellent reactions for a man nearing 60.



When, eventually, I said that I should have to think over a proposed purchase as I wasn't sure if I liked it, he said eagerly: "Certainly, I should not care for you to buy anything and regret it afterwards." Just before I left a very tall young man and a biggish boy came in, and he told them to go into his office. Both stylish. "My sons," he said to me, concealing his pride. This place was a good illustration of the invasion of trade by the educated and well-bred classes.



Another instance I had the other day at Gereth's in Beauchamp Place, where the middle-aged lady boss was a most charming woman. Another is the "Cottars Market", run by Mrs. Pitt Chatham and Mrs. Playfair. All these three close together. I suppose all this tells us something about societal changes since the war. It is of a kind with the shortage of servants, and the noticeable decline in deference, and the fall-off in church attendance. All of which I believe intellectually to be good things, but I can't help feeling that the world was a better place when I was young. I suppose that is part and parcel of getting old.