THE last time Clive had experienced such a difficult division of loyalties was 50 years ago when, during an impromptu debate among 15-year-old boys in his public school quad, he had to choose whom he would prefer to take home to mother – Marilyn Monroe or Brigitte Bardot.

Now his choice was between the Conservative Party, the virtues of which had been drummed into him by a grandmother whose attitude made Margaret Thatcher seem like Mother Theresa, and the law banning hunting with dogs, legislation he had campaigned for and today supported with every fibre of his long, lean body.

The dilemma was explained by the friend of their school days, Matthew. He had also been asked to choose all those years ago. (He had gone for Bardot). I wondered why the usually cheeerful Clive was looking so gloomy in spite of still having a half-full glass of The Mitre’s best.

How could Clive remain loyal to the Tories who, that very day, had promised – should they form the next Government – to repeal the law and throw the argument to the wolves again? An apt choice of metaphor.

“You'd think loyalty for one cause automatically demanded hatred for the other. Things were always black and white with Clive,” said Matthew, almost ignoring his friend's presence.

I pointed out the Tories were not in power, and a General Election was unlikely for a year or so. It was pointless to get into such a state when there were more pressing matters gnawing at our ankles – like recession and depression.

“But try telling him that,” Matthew said, as his friend read the headlines for the umpteenth time. “I've suggested he might not live long enough to see the unthinkable. I’ve the feeling that today he wouldnt care if he didn’t.”

****

FORTUNATELY Clive and Matthew have known each other long enough not to let such passions affect their friendship.

I’m not sure this would be the same for the two smartly dressed, elderly grey-haired women who were having afternoon tea in the Marks & Spencer restaurant.

The dialogue was intense yet disjointed. Trying to get the gist was near impossible, especially as I had come in midway through.

“I tell you, it was St Mary,” said one.

“Nonsense. There wasn’t a halo,” said the other.

“She doesn’t always have a halo. Anyway, she was in blue.”

“St Mary does, but I can’t see why you should think St Mary has the monopoly on blue.”

“You’re just being awkward, like you always are when you’re wrong.

You were the same when you insisted Joan Fontaine was in Gone With The Wind.”

(I was tempted to settle the matter for them by saying it was Joan’s sister Olivia de Haviland in that famous film – but resisted.) “If it wasn’t St Mary, then who was it?” said the first, resuming the argument.

“I think it was St Joan.

“But she wasn’t wearing armour.”

“Good God! She wasn’t always a soldier.

“And she wasn’t being burned at the stake.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

Two sets of lips were then pursed, and they sat without a word while finishing their drinks.

Eventually they left in silence.

“It was St Margaret,” said a lone white-haired man who had allowed me to join him at his table in the busy restaurant.

“What was?” I asked.

“A range of clothing sold by M&S.

“I remember the adverts. I think the stuff was made for them in Leicester – but don’t hold me to it.”

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“For the same reason you didn’t settle the Joan Fontaine argument,” he said. “I saw your eyes light up. But you were enjoying it. Am I right?”

Confession was inevitable.