Ancestral Homage

How to spend a few hours profitably in search of enjoyment, when one is so alone? A trip to an old people's home: hurrah!

It was the best day I have had in a while. My mother, as most of you will attest, can talk. And has an opinion or two. But she has an aunt that is far better, who does not have the vicious tongue of my grandma, but has an ability to sway the room. By the way, if the room starts swaying for you, it's because I have just about finished the lawn.

More importantly to me, my great-uncle is a wily old bird. Deaf as a post, but bloody good at lip-reading. All that family seem to live to be 702, which is the age I always claim when asked. Trouble is, my father's side seem to tuck under the sod a little earlier. Len is Sylv's favourite uncle, and, truth be told, he is my favourite great uncle. In a class of his own, ha ha!

He was in the print. For a long time. He actually worked in Fleet Street, and presented Ma with a bunch of drawings of the City when it still looked like something worth working in. He has been married for nearly 70 years - I told him that is surely a misprint, but he just smiled at his 701-year-old wife. Great Uncle Len worked for the The News Chronicle. In 1960 it was merged into the Daily Mail, and The Star was merged into the Evening News, all part of the lovely fascist empire created by the Northcliffe peerage. Len continued to work for the junta until I could understand what a lovely man he was. He still reads the Daily Telegraph each morning, but of course, he is only doing so to check out the Opposition, as my erudite transport correspondent would have it.

The day brought out my faith in humanity: I may write another day. Jules - that is not a coded message for you-know-what, okay?

Goodness me, it's getting late! And I haven't found a job yet. More drivel tomorrow!

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