I drove through a classic English pea soup fog to get to a gallery opening that John Mason had in London. There were so many roads and canals on the road from Oxford to London that it was as moist as a wet sponge. I was leaning out of the window of an old Mercedes trying to keep my eye on the edge of the road. So I was barking, “A little to the right, a little to the left, not so fast!” We finally got into London. John’s show was near Westminster Palace, and I got to visit with people I had met at The Ruskin. I loved London.

In England, when I left my room, half a flight down was a bathroom. It didn’t have a toilet. It had a basin and a tub. The tub was cast iron painted with enamel paint. If you weren’t careful, your fingernail would scrape the paint off. The tub was shaped more like a coffin than an American bathtub. It was narrow at the feet. I was going up at seven in the evening every night and having a tub. I always found plenty of hot water and it was luxurious. There was a young English divinity student and his wife living above me. On my floor was a Scottish watchmaker who worked in a jewelry shop. He was definitely an alcoholic, but he wasn’t noisy or unpleasant. Harold Shaw lived on the top floor. The Shaw family had been sending their boys to Oxford from Hong Kong for years. His father was Run Run Shaw, a very wealthy fellow who owned all of the movie houses and film studios in the Far East. Ernie Poole, my landlord, had taken care of Shaw’s sons. I’m sure he was tipped handsomely in addition to his normal fee.

When I noticed my housemates were starting not to meet me with their eyes, I invited them down to my room for tea and crumpets and ice cream. After things settled down, I said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I understand from your behavior that I have done something to upset you. If you tell me what it is, I can correct my behavior. If you don’t, I shall go on doing whatever it is I’m doing and it won’t any longer be my fault; it will be yours.”

So the divinity student cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Barnstone, each of us has a bath night. And every night, you have taken one of our hot waters.” This had gone on for a couple of weeks. Poole was having the time of his life with it. It was very entertaining for him. His life must not have been too exciting. He was taking their money and firing up the water heater so they’d have a tub, and then watching me steal it. Ernie hadn’t told me about the bath night because that would have ruined his fun.