The talented Michael Horovitz was indeed “ever the impoverished poet” (Obituary, 11 July), and ever clever at getting money out of anyone, anywhere – it was like a smiling crusade, the cheery phrase being “Can I touch you for a tip?” I once earned his goodwill when, seeing him from afar in the queue of guests waiting to get into the Daily Mail Christmas party (those were the days), I spotted that determined chin and beady eye fixed on me. “Ah, Michael,” I said, before he could begin, “I was hoping to see you to ask if I could touch you for a tip?” “Well,” he said, amused, “I was going to ask you the same.” His eyes lit up with admiration. “But you got in first.”
Mavis Cheek
London
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