Miles Kington RIP

My good pal Miles Kington is dead. At 66, which bodes no boot for my turning 62 on Monday.

I met him when we worked together on a miniaturist-painting book (he'd've approved of that defining hyphen) for which he'd contributed the dry captions and background.

More famous than the author, he got a bit fed up with me phoning to set up another interview to sell a book for which he got no royalties.

He had a splendid technique for keeping correspondence down: from wherever I wrote to keep him up to date or hoping to hear, he would reply promptly, "No one could possibly live in a place called Baguio. I demand further proof ... no one could possibly live in 'Wanchai' ... on Bainbridge Island ..."

As long as I venture into 'Company', I shall remember his observation on Smiles:

"There are so many kinds, especially at parties:

There's the kind that says: 'I remember your name, but I bet you don't remember mine.'

There's the kind that says: 'Excuse me, I want to squeeze past you, but I don't want to talk to you.'

Or 'I have a much funnier story than yours, which I will tell you as soon as you've finished'."