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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460414" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0012 Ego takes the stage</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room<br>in one of those rare up-town hotels<br>that’s still a family concern; well-run, <br>staff been there for years; prices<br>reasonable. In fact the whole enterprise<br>is civilised. Even media types<br>for whom it stood in angry youth<br>as all they affected to despise, rather like it now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s full though admirably leisurely<br>every afternoon – all friendly chatter, <br>silver-plate and fancy cakes. It stands<br>for exactly what it is, now rare – a tea-room.<br>Those who visit regularly wear the faintest sense<br>of self-congratulation. There was one <br>at every major London corner not so long ago. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yesterday, suddenly, an intrusion: <br>onto the dais where a pianist plays<br>from four to five of a weekend afternoon, <br>a studenty-dressed chap launched himself<br>with a rant, which seemed to take in<br>everything from coffee and class to human rights.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Conversation dwindled; out-of-towners<br>up for supper and a show<br>judged it perhaps as experimental afternoon theatre<br>put on by an ill-advised management; <br>(the tea-dances there, long gone) : <br>some of the younger media types<br>barracked him; the rest of us<br>listened politely, before he was removed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Conversation picked up slowly, then<br>became more stimulated; some of us<br>remembered the bombings only<br>just up the road. On the more senior tables, <br>his performance was compared unfavourably<br>with what we used to hear in ’68. More<br>hot water was called for; it seemed to have<br>made us thirstier.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was, altogether<br>a very English occasion. A pity John Betjeman<br>or Alan Bennett couldn’t have been there. <br>When we left, the cloakroom attendants<br>looked friendlier, as if the tips were a little<br>larger today. And departing visitors<br>smiled at one another. We had shared<br>an occasion in central London, <br>and lived to tell the tale at home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460414" data-title="0012 Ego takes the stage de Michael Shepherd" data-description="It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room
in one of those rare up-town hotels
that’s still a family concern; well-run, 
staff been there for years; prices
reasonable. In fact the whole enterprise
is civilised. Even media types
for whom it stood in ..."></div>
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