My friend Jonathan Miller, visiting the house for the first time—this was soon after the war—said it seemed like a rented house to him, there was so little evidence of personal taste or decision. I was as indifferent as my parents to the decor of the house, though I was angered and bewildered by Jonathan’s comment. For, to me, 37 was full of mysteries and wonders—the stage, the mythic background, on which my life was lived.
