Whisky Magazine Issue 52
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A kiss is just a kiss. Or does it count as sexual harassment?
The taxi home swerved just slightly, to avoid an approaching car that was being driven too liberally, probably by someone who had been taking his drink the same way.
In the back of the cab, our bodies were thrown together, and I kissed the Minister of Health. Snatched a snog, so to speak.
Except that a snog cannot be hurried. It may start briskly, but nature demands that it continues with exploratory diligence She bade me goodnight, but invited me to a lunchtime theatre in Soho next day. Courtships were slow in those innocent years, and she had sufficient time to eat her sandwiches, watch the one-act play, chat with me about it and be decisive.
When we left the theatre, it was for our respective offices.
She was not Secretary of State then, nor even an MP. She was plain old Patricia Hewitt. Not so much of the plain or old, though, if you don't mind.
It is perhaps less than gallant of me to kiss and tell, but I am a writer, and that is what we do.
I get more scrivening than kissing these days, and she bans activities that might be deemed harmful to health.
I detailed the swerve of the taxi in order to explain the almost involuntary nature of that memorable moment. Well it attained that status for me. I remember it, don't I? In the highly unlikely event that she remembers even the Macallan 10 that flavoured the kiss, I have cast her as the snogged against.
Had it happened today, I might have found myself charged with sexual harassment.
How does anyone ever get to bed t...