Christmas Party of the Golden Dawn

After a weekend of ennui, tooth-chattering cold and bad portents in the Tarot, I received an interesting invitation this morning. The hand-pressed creamy paper of the envelope gave away the source of the correspondence immediately. And upon opening (I trusted Una with the letter-opener, perhaps foolishly given the glint in her eye), letters pressed in gold leaf on luxuriously thick card invited me to the Christmas party of the Societas Rosicruciana in Welwyn (S.R.I.W.).

This secret society had been based in the Angel, Islington, but the infirmity of most of its members, rising rents and their failing ability to turn base metals into gold had prompted its relocation to the leafy and less poetic environs of Welwyn Garden City. In darkest Hertfordshire an elderly master of theurgy could safely decode the Hermetic Qabalah whilst speeding around on a mobility cart.

Normally I try to avoid the barely living dark priests of S.R.I.W., if only because their dogma seems to defeat the point of magic (their infirm condition, admittedly, also merely reminds me of my even more decrepit state). But this year I have had to contend with the death of most of my show business chums and that unfortunate business with Dirk Bogarde’s pinkie ring.

When one’s diary is empty, even Welwyn Garden City can become tolerable…