The Duncan is the worst hotel in New Haven. I am reminded of the Russian couriers who, some years ago, escorted to Yale a shipment of great British paintings from the Hermitage. The St Petersburg party mainly consisted of assistant curators, the kind of post-Soviet official whom perestroika forgot: dusty basement dwellers, labourers in remote cupboards, attic people. They were not just penniless, but they also had the pallor of real hardship, and a corresponding degree of rat cunning. After delivering their valuable crates, the tired but stoical Russians were dropped off at the Omni, New Haven’s best hotel, where each was allotted a comfortable prepaid room. They waved their Yalie hosts goodbye and, after a discreet pause, repaired to Reception. Through an interpreter they cancelled their bookings, and somehow got the management to let them retrieve hard cash. Within minutes, the Russians were hauling their ancient suitcases up Chapel Street. Prudently skirting the British Art Center, they eventually found and checked into the Duncan, two and three to a room. The point at which the scrofular concierge got in touch with us was when, late at night, lewd odours began to drift under doors, down corridors and staircases – the unmistakable fragrance of woody turnips bubbling away in a huge battered kettle perched over a scratch spirit stove in the bathroom. It is said that the Duncan was prepared to overlook the matter in return for a further, modest discretionary payment, and careful reassurances in respect of public liability. Never has the great wealth of Yale met with such an eloquent, relatively harmless and, above all, humbling rebuke.

Recently, my discreet, slimline olive-green Samsonite attaché case, which has been my faithful companion since about 1981, was stolen from under my feet in a quiet public place by the cleverest thieves I have ever had the misfortune to be targeted by. However, the Samsonite – and all its contents – were safely returned to me. Evidently, prayers addressed to St Odo of Cluny for the safe return of lost items are powerfully effective. It seems that later that same evening, in the middle of a snowstorm, apparently finding nothing inside that was attractive to them, the thieves threw my beloved Samsonite out of their car window, presumably traveling at or above the speed limit of fifty-five miles per hour on a stretch of Interstate Highway 91 that runs between North Haven and Wallingford, Conn. It landed on the road, stayed shut, was by some miracle not flattened by another car or lorry, and was eventually buried under the snow.

The following morning, my trusty Samsonite was bumped into by a snowplough clearing the road, thoughtfully retrieved by Mr Corelli, the driver, and his assistant, Mr Bruno, who later delivered it into the hands of Officer Malley of the Wallingford Police Department. He immediately arranged a compassionate reunion. The contents of my durable Samsonite were not merely undamaged, but dry as a bone. Moreover, incredible as it may seem, the stylish slim lines, sturdy frame and hard-wearing exterior of my beautiful Samsonite sustained not a scratch, not a dent, not a blemish throughout this entire episode. I immediately sat down and wrote a long, adoring letter to the manufacturers.

I was partly inspired to do this by the warm and fascinating off-printed testimonials glued in our trusty 1914 illustrated trade catalogue of Winsor & Newton Ltd., Artists’ Colourmen. Referring to a painting holiday spent in beautiful country that my Scottish great-great-grandfather William Pearson first cleared and settled in the 1840s – not without shameful acts of violence toward the local Aborigines, for which, in the spirit of the times, I am glad to put on record my own rather inadequate ‘sorry’ – the artist E.J. Shearsby wrote from 66 Tivoli Road, South Yarra:

You will no doubt be interested to know that whilst on a sketching tour in Gippsland two years ago, I had a large surplus of your Flake White on my palette at the completion of a day’s work, and, with the aid of my palette knife, applied it to the surface of a fallen tree, which was minus its bark.

Last month I paid another visit to the locality and have had an opportunity of comparing the paint with some fresh from the tube, and find it has not discoloured in the slightest.

This proof of permanency is of importance in itself, but when I add that the paint has been fully exposed to Australia’s summer sun for two years, and the tree lies on marshy land, and had for several days of each winter been submerged by the overflow of the River La Trobe, these facts are worthy of record and speak well for the purity and permanency of your Flake White.

So far I have not heard from the Samsonite Corporation. Perhaps their attorneys are busily drafting a restraining order, because I actually wrote a second time alerting them to the fact that, according to Uncle Alec, my late Grandfather Trumble’s senior Samsonite gave service equally as impressive as mine. In 1948–49 it appeared as instructing solicitor to Garfield Barwick, KC, before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council in London in the famous case of the Commonwealth of Australia v. The Bank of New South Wales. It seems there was a moment of mid-life crisis in 1977, when my grandfather’s distinguished Samsonite was apprehended trying to break out of Stockholm International Airport, no doubt driven to distraction by the prospect of Scandinavian free love: hearty blondes; the sauna; naked frolicking in snow; bunches of sticks, and all that (these things did happen in the 1970s, and one must make allowances). But on the whole, across depressingly fickle decades, I am assured that my grandfather’s Samsonite was a model of quiet strength, discretion and probity. It is currently in comfortable retirement on the Mornington Peninsula, and rarely grants interviews.

Braving the shopping madness in New York, whilst awaiting a new Australian passport, I dashed into Barney’s at 660 Madison for a bottle of Fumerie Turque by Serge Lutens. This glorious perfume whispers suggestions. It grows slowly but steadily; challenges you with the slightest hint of sharpness (doubt?), then turns east. I hear the roar of camels, and the murmuring of sullen, brown-eyed boys in jellabas and burnouses. I feel the sunshine on my skin. Further vibrations of the gamelan and little bells – we’re quite a lot further east, now – these lead to softer mellifluousness and then (outrageous!) there are flowers, a pronounced under-note of carnation, warm rain, followed by darkness. The perfect apology gift to send to my patient, dramaturgical friend who, alas, is working on a musical at home in Baltimore, Maryland, and will not now return to stay at the Duncan until much later in the spring.