They knew it was me because all they could hear was the clatter of my typewriter. Just me and the removal men.
This was a million years before the computer, bear in mind (what’s a computer?) and it’s a tug at the heart strings to see that vintage typewriters are being upgraded so they can be used in the old-fashioned way, for typing through an ink ribbon, into a computer. Upgraded typewriters are priced from just under 500 quid. So that cobwebbed old hurdy-gurdy in your attic could be worth a bob or two. The ribbons doubtless will have dried up.
You might dare rate my ancestry somewhat bizarre. My father was a conductor. Not with a baton. No, on the 12 buses serving Portobello to Corstorphine.
My grandad was a professional mole strangler and my great-grandfather was a part-time lamplighter. He trimmed the wicks on the gas lights in the Canongate.
Stout, sturdy men. All well over 15 stones. So you’re mystified, if not intrigued, that they produced a ten-stone wimp churning out a daily column as lightweight as this.
Grow for it
My girlfriend Fleur fawns over me. She thinks I’m a pansy. My name’s down for an allotment, by the way. Want to grow my very own vegetables.
Afterwords . .
. . . it was Adrian Mitchell, one of the Liverpool poets era no longer with us, who declared: “Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people.” How true.