I do not mind admitting to a character trait of mine that has not left me with advancing age: a laming shyness in the face of genuine greatness.

In the 1970s, when Alfred Brendel gave a number of solo recitals in Budapest, I did a radio interview and later on a television interview with him and he invited me to his hotel for lunch. I suppose he did not know anybody in the city and preferred my company to a lonely meal.

Making conversation with the great artist whose recordings of Schubert sonatas (a thick album of LPs) was the object of my boundless admiration proved extremely difficult. My solution to overcoming a temporarily paralyzed brain (I felt I was supposed to carry on a brilliant conversation and just could not think of anything to say) was to ask one silly question after another.

Initially, Brendel seemed quite willing to reply and told me of his background, which I seem to remember was a mixture of Czech, Austrian, Italian, and perhaps also of Croatian blood. In any case, all of a sudden, I became keenly aware of the moment he gave up on me. We reached the end of our lunch all right but I knew I had not qualified.

Sometime—weeks or months—later, we met in London. All I can recall is that I was waiting for the lift to take me downstairs (was it in a hotel? a restaurant?).