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one would be tempted to close off this room. It has been rather an irritation to have to rule on whether it is appropriate to instal a blown-up picture of the entire Liberal Democratic Party, selected Conservative apostates or if our venom should be concentrated on New Labour. Ricketts doesn’t have a lot of initiative in these matters, you understand. Besides, it makes us appear predictable in our politics, and whatever my colleagues may think, it is my view that we should maintain an open mind.’
    ‘Has it always just been darts?’ asked Amiss, who was inspecting what seemed to be very large holes in Napoleon’s head.
    ‘Used to be bullets. At one time the entire staff used to have shooting competitions in here. But sometime in the nineteen thirties there was a distressing incident when one assistant editor inflicted an unpleasant flesh wound on a colleague: it was never clear whether it was deliberate or not. After that bullets were replaced by a more plebeian but safer alternative.’ He neighed uproariously. ‘Come to think of it, you should be grateful for that.’
    Amiss, whose ear continued to throb, managed a weak smile.

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    4
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    ‘We have a very small editorial staff,’ explained Lambie Crump, as they walked down the stairs. ‘Apart from hoi polloi, there are only four. Most of our journal is written by outside contributors, but we do have on the staff a political editor – my deputy – an assistant editor, a part-time literary editor and a kind of odd-job woman. The others you need to know about now, I suppose, are my secretary, Sabrina Trustier-Stomp, who is away at the moment, Marcia and Ben, Miss Mercatroid, whom you’ve met, Miss Grumshaw, the supervisor of the typewriters and Josiah Ricketts, at whose hands you suffered just now and with whom you’ll be working closely; but more of that another time.’ If he was aware of Amiss’s horrified reaction, he gave no sign of it.
    As Lambie Crump stopped at the end of the corridor, he announced portentously: ‘Now here is my deputy, Henry Potbury, our distinguished political editor.’ He opened the door and together he and Amiss contemplated the form of the room’s incumbent, who was sprawled across his desk apparently dead. Amiss’s momentary alarm was dispelled by Lambie Crump’s heavy sigh, which alerted him to the more mundane reality that Potbury was in a deep sleep.
    After a loud greeting from Lambie Crump, Potbury twitched and grunted and finally struggled to an upright position. He gazed at his visitors blearily. Amiss realized that he was drunk. ‘Henry Potbury, our senior and most valued editor. Indeed, one should say’ – Lambie Crump never lost the opportunity to be portentous, thought Amiss – ‘a man whose unparalleled devotion to the mind of Burke has been more than inspirational. One might go further and describe Henry as the lodestar of The Wrangler for some thirty years now, a man whose quality of thought has always transcended…’
    As he paused to find the mot juste , Amiss observed that the recipient of this elegant bouquet seemed unimpressed. And as Lambie Crump continued with ‘…all vulgar corruptions…’ Potbury slowly slipped down into his chair and fell once again into a deep sleep. Within seconds he was snoring.
    Lambie Crump looked at him with distaste. ‘Alas, in some respects my colleague adheres too closely to the customs and practices of the eighteenth century in which he is so at home.’ He set his lips primly. ‘One accepts that if we are traditionalists, we must live with tradition. And while as his editor, one might wish for Potbury to have the virtues of the past without its vices, that is perhaps a touch unreasonable.’ He sighed. ‘Let us proceed to one of his more temperate colleagues.’
     
    ‘Ah, here is Wilfred Parry.’ An exquisite youth in a white suit looked up from his Georgian desk and laid down his fountain pen. ‘Good afternoon, Willie.’
    ‘One is always sorry to