Bells to St Wystan

This week sees the centenary of the birth in York of W. H. Auden. All over the world this season, Audenites should at 1755 hours precisely prepare a very cold, very dry Martini and at 1800 hours, six o’clock, again precisely, down it in praise and memory of a giant of English letters. Vital to be meticulous about the hour. As he said of himself in an autobiographical sketch:

So obsessive a ritualist
a pleasant surprise
makes him cross.
Without a watch
he would never know when
to feel hungry or horny.

Like many Oxford undergraduates of my generation (he was Professor of Poetry when I went up), I knew Auden slightly and dined with him a few times. He had aged prematurely, become repetitive and, away from the page, fairly boring. Like his friend and contemporary, John Betjeman, he had long invented a persona — dotty vicar in his case — but Auden got trapped by it.