English rose

I've just heard the sad news that my dear friend Jenny has died. She passed away peacefully in her sleep on Friday, in her own bed and surrounded by friends.

After discovering a few weeks ago that her pneumonia was actually inoperable cancer and leukemia, she took the brave and somewhat old-fashioned decision to 'take to her bed' and await the end. She told me when I phoned her a few days ago that any treatment at her stage would be nothing more than a form of torture.

Reflecting on that phone call now reminds me of everything so wonderful about Jenny. Despite what she was going through, it seemed to be her who was comforting me. "Goodbye, George my love, take care of yourself," she said as we made our final farewells.

Or maybe those farewells weren't so final. On Saturday morning I woke up with the distinct impression of her laughter. Apparently she found it funny that I've overcome the problem of having too large a bedroom by putting a tent up in it. Perhaps it's just coincidence, but I know that she would have found it funny. Jenny always enjoyed my oddness, and camping in your own bedroom is, on reflection, an odd thing to do.

But there was a sensible reason for the tent. Over the past week or so the house has started to spew water (often out of the sewerage system) from the most unexpected places. It all started with complaints from Jess that there was a smell of poo coming from her en-suite bathroom. Obviously, living with a bunch of blokes, she didn't get much sympathy or active assistance, just giggling mockery and insinuation. Then the source of the smell became apparent, as foul water began to bubble through the drain in the middle of the room. Then the ceiling of the room underneath her at the back of the palace opened up, and a filthy brown torrent began splashing down onto the concrete floor. We called the landlord's odd-job man and he came round with the plumber. I think they've fixed it now, I'm not sure how - but it involved pulling down seemingly random sections of ceiling and smashing holes in the basketball court.

Despite its diminished circumstances, the house continues to act as a magnet for the great and good of Bogota. We've had a film crew in asking if they can hire a room for a few days and we've been offered about a hundred quid to host a charity party. We didn't have to think about the latter offer too long; the charity is run by a group of socially-concerned lingerie models.

I've been meeting a fair few models recently. On Wednesday we were all invited to the 20th anniversary bash of Latin America's fourth largest agency. My goodness, but some of those girls are tall.

Anyway, today is St George's day, and I feel the need to go and raise a few glasses to Jenny; who embodied all the finest qualities of the English, none of the bad ones and a whole host of others besides.