TOMORROW is Easter Friday for Christ’s sake.
Easter! Does that not take me back to my childhood and Easter eggs. Hold on a minute or two. I think I’ve got a giant cream Easter egg somewhere, although it must be a tad mouldy by now.
But it was my dear old mum, God bless her, who wouldn’t let the occasion pass without an egg or two, varying in size and depending on how much she had in her purse. She never let Easter pass without an egg of sorts.
Since then I’ve always felt I’ve been something of a holy sort.
While I’ve been talking of things holy, let me add that I’ve just heard today of the passing of one of my oldest friends, namely Alistair Mowat. He was a jazz enthusiast, make no mistake.
But if he had one fault – one blemish if you like – it was that he smoked like a lum, not to mention the occasional slurp of vino. I have to believe that Alistair’s smoking hastened his passing. But then who am I to criticise, who am I to chip away at a good chap’s enviable character? Never mind, Al, if I can borrow a line from one of Vera’s classics, We’ll Meet Again and I’ll play some good stuff for you.
We’ll meet again some sunny day.
Something tells me the column today is becoming too maudlin for my comfort, if not yours.
On top of all this they were dancing in the streets of Kirkcaldy the other night, my source in Fife informs me. It’s one helluva life and not one I wish on anybody, in either a maroon or light blue jersey.
Believe that and you’ll believe anything.