Follow-up

I WAS on the other side of someone turning up at the wrong address (Peterborough). In the late Sixties, I shared a basement flat in the West End of London with five other girls. Early one evening, the doorbell rang and I opened the door to a nervous looking chap. I showed him into the front room to wait and went back along the long corridor to the kitchen where my flatmates were getting ready for the evening, doing make-up and face-packs. I told them that someone’s boyfriend had arrived and, one by one, they trotted off to have a look and returned saying: ‘Not my date!’ Perplexed, I went back and asked who he had come to see. ‘Oh, I don’t mind — you’ll do,’ he answered. I pulled myself up to my full height of 5ft 8in to say haughtily: ‘I think you have the wrong flat.’ I didn’t see him for dust. It turned out that two ‘working girls’ had moved into the flat upstairs. Eliza Reid, Millbrook, Cornwall.