Late Start


The early sun didn’t fool me for a moment and sure enough the Heavens opened. We had already decided to put shopping on the back burner. Christmas is more or less sorted and personal shopping seems inappropriate just now. So a simple lunch then we’re off to Hatch Beauchamp.


This made me laugh: Roy Hudd – the physical embodiment of old Music Hall was talking on the radio about his memoirs – forget the celebrity tripe – this will have a lifetime of laughter and tears between its covers. He was an evacuee and used to love getting letters from his mother who – sadly - suffered from depression. When winter came she sent him a parcel containing his winter overcoat. She wrote that because of the expense of postage she had cut off the buttons. And the buttons were in the left hand pocket.


The sad part was that Roy was mostly brought up by his Gran and his mother committed suicide. No-one told Roy and she was never mentioned until one day his Gran said:
‘Your mother’s dead. And there isn’t a Father Christmas.’


His Gran used to say he was like a fart in a colander he was so lively and his wife
(who I believe is Lancastrian) said he must use that as the title. And he has.
Back soon.