For someone who was so dry, at least in the persona he presented to the public, R. S. Thomas was a sweets-loving man.
He and Betty and Nancy and I were having dinner together at the Bull Bay Hotel. My notes say that Betty ordered pink gin, Nancy and Ronald selected a cream (sweet) sherry, my drink was scotch. We agreed that the soup, while unnamable, was tasty. Chicken supreme and assorted vegetables came next.
“Dessert?” I asked.
“Do you think,” Ronald grinned, “they’ll have ice cream?”
They did, and he tucked into it with the gusto of a kid.
Am I playing the first-name game? Of course. That’s inevitable in a blog such as this. But by the time of that dinner, R.S. had invited me to call him Ronald.
Something to do, I suspect, with the way Betty made him less dry.