Detail, "L'Education Sentimentale" 
                                                                                                     Aubrey Beardsley
                                                                                                     From The Yellow Book, Volume I, April 1894
                                                                                                     London: Elkin Mathews & John Lane

As many of you know, Pam has recently turned 16.  It has not been, by any stretch of the imagination nor in the remotest sense of the word, anything close to sweet.  Her name isn't even Pam, as a matter of fact, but Agnes, which is curiously enough the name of a saint.  Another ironic twist, when one thinks about it, as neither saintliness nor sweetness has had any play around here of late.  Far from it.  

Which is not a little odd, when you consider that her mother (the Countess Uccello) who was once a student of mine, (ages ago, virtually in another life) happened to be a perfectly delightful child, never difficult, and although one may argue that an apple never falls far from the tree, it would seem to be the case that occasionally it can nevertheless roll a good distance downhilll from it.  As for attempting to calculate the influence of the father, I must confess that in this instance it would appear to be a case of easier said than done, given how far in absentia he tends to be, which is to say as far as his yacht, polo ponies, various sports cars or the latest boyfriend may take him. 

Setting aside the question of whether the child's tendency to the diabolical is acquired or innate, however, surely one of the great mysteries of our time is how she happened to come to play so great and unavoidalbe a role in my life.   And yet, as delight can turn to horror, as pleasure can cross that tenous barrier into pain, so too did my initial thrill at learning of her arrival in town turn to dismay and, ultimately, despair. 

As you may recall, when news reached us here on the west coast that the daughter of the Countess was coming to live with her grandmother in order to attend the local and very prestigious Chesterfield School for Girls, I for one could not have been more pleased.  Yes, a few of you may recollect a slightly different scenario and even an altogether less positive reaction on my part, but might I remind you that when in doubt it's generally thought best to take the high road, so to speak, as far as memory is concerned, especially when certain people whose names one knows as well as one's own not only know where the bodies are buried but helped to bury them, if you see my point, so let's just set down our shovels and move on, shall we? 

In any case, imagine my surprise when I discovered that the way to Pam's Grandmother's house lay not over the proverbial river and through the woods, but mere walking distance from me, or the equivalent of an easy L.A. driving commute which is to say about four blocks, a surprisingly cozy 35-room Neo-MGM-Tudor country house clearly visible through the row of palms out my sitting room window.

Even now, sitting here, typing this, remembering our history together, Pam's and mine, I look out and can amost imagine, against the bright blue sky of this relentlessly sunny day, great cumulus clouds of smoke billowing up from the slate gables, and bright deadly flames snapping at the diamond paned casement windows of the upper storeys.

To Be Continued.