Text message from my brother:
Nope, nor me. Dad has a habit of recounting tales from his youth, including such gems as
- "When Tiddler Tom and I tried to blow up the pipe mines under the road at Spark’s Corner by throwing matches down them"
- "The slit trench I dug in the parents’ garden with only a teaspoon" (or was it a toothpick?)
- "The day they tied the apprentices’ bikes to the gas holder at Argyle Road" (my personal favourite)
- "The day that I was chased by the police through Felpham" (absolute classic – Dad was on his bike and the policeman commandeered a car in order to give chase – bear in mind that this was the 1940s, so picture something from the Keystone Cops)
It looks like we have another one for the list – I hope Tim was taking notes.
I really ought to write these tales down, perhaps publish them here, although it has to be said that half the fun of Dad’s storytelling is the sight and sound of him laughing so hard that he can barely speak, turning beetroot red, with tears running down his face. That and the fact that a two sentence story gets extended (embellished and exaggerated) so that it takes upwards of thirty minutes to relate.