Tony, who is spending a couple of nights with us, has been a friend for forty-five years. Naturally, a certain amount of reminiscing was required to be done. We got talking about where we had each been living when. Since I had lived with Tony and Madeleine for a while and we have visited each other over the years, my friend was able to put me right on a few details.
Having spent almost all my childhood in Stanton Road in Raynes Park, and, later, nineteen years in Lindum House in Newark, I am not really a person who naturally moves around. My life circumstances, however, have necessitated a number of changes of address. No doubt many of you have played the game of ‘how many places have I lived in?’.
There follows a gazetteer of what I remember:
My first seven weeks were spent in Leicester General Hospital where I was born seven weeks prematurely. After this I must have returned with my mother to a house in the vicinity of Leicester prison, which is where her father worked. We would live there for the next two years when we moved for a short time to my paternal grandparents’ home at 18 South Park Road, SW19 whilst Mum sought a rented home for us.
Unfortunately I have no memory of Grandma Knight who died when I was four. This is sad because I am told I used to follow her everywhere with her stick. The house itself, like so many of Wimbledon’s grand Victorian houses, has long since been demolished to make way for an ugly block of flats.
As a family we lived in the maisonette at 29a Stanton Road until I was eighteen, when we all moved to 18 Bernard Gardens, SW19, when Auntie Mabel bequeathed it to Dad. After Vivien and I married, in 1963, we stayed in Bernard Gardens for a few months until we bought 79 Ashcombe Road, SW19. 
It was in Stanton Road that Jacqueline took my photograph with the Box Brownie in 1957. Okay, it’s not in focus, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
In the short time Vivien, Michael and I lived at Ashcombe Road our son busied himself helping in various home-making tasks, such as rolling the turfs of a lawn we had just laid. This was recorded for posterity by Vivien. 
After her death Michael and I returned to Bernard Gardens, where we stayed until Jackie and I married and bought 76 Amity Grove, SW20 in 1968.
Jackie and I, sadly, parted in 1972, and, for the first time, I left SW19/20 for East London, where I spent a month with Tony and Madeleine, at whose wedding in 1970 ‘The Bridesmaid’ photograph was taken. I will never forget seeing, as bereft, and carrying a suitcase,
I turned into Lolesworth Buildings, Thrawl Street, Whitechapel, Madeleine standing on their top floor balcony beating a carpet hanging over the railings in the bright sunshine that caught the flying dust. Tony tells me this building, c.1880, was demolished in 1979.
From Lolesworth Buildings I moved for a few more months to stay with Jill in Blackheath. I remember the flat, at the top of Shooters Hill, but forget the address. The sequence and chronology of the next few months is a bit hazy, as was I, but I had a fortnight in a flat in West London belonging to a work colleague in Southwark Social Services Department and a month or so once again with Tony in Gillespie Road, near Arsenal’s former football ground in North London. A period of stability sharing Giles’ basement flat in Pimlico lasted a bit more than a year.
In 1974 I began to work in Westminster Social Services, and, together with Jessica and Michael, took up residence, for three months, in an unoccupied children’s home in Droop Street, NW10 which was opposite the Area Office. Matthew and Becky still enjoy telling how, when they came for the weekends, they experienced the thrill of choosing any one of the numerous available bedrooms. The children also had access to the kitchen, with varying results. 
These two pictures demonstrate first the intense industry and excitement generated by cake-making; then the awful moment of truth when Michael’s disappointment, Becky’s visible disgust, and that ‘Matthew’s world has ended (Flo)’ is displayed. Four ounces of salt had been used instead of that quantity of sugar. It is to my granddaughter that I owe today’s title, being an example of an Internet meme. I do hope my readers are suitably impressed.
From Droop Street, Michael, Jessica and I moved to a beautiful house owned by the Fry building firm in Lloyd Baker Street. This was the premises of the Peel Institute which housed a boys’ club. I received accommodation in the main house in return for caretaking the separate club building. Jessica is seen here reflected in the boys’ club window.
This afternoon Becky and Ian arrived to take repossession of Flo and Scooby, and stayed for dinner. When Jackie served up a delicious beef stew, crisp roast potatoes, brussels and carrots, I realised I had to pause this residential history. I will continue at a future date, probably not tomorrow because we are all going to Michael’s for a family day. I finished the Trottwood; Jackie and Ian shared a large Hoegaarden; and the others drank sparkling water.
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In The Brearley Mould
As planned, yesterday lunchtime Jackie drove Flo, me and Scooby to Shelly and Ron’s for a most convivial lunch and afternoon which stretched into the early evening. A storm raged throughout the journey, the Modus wheels sending up high waves on either side as it disturbed the numerous pools across the country roads. Despite still recovering from a cold Shelly produced an excellent turkey and sweet leek pie inspired by Jamie Oliver. I was particularly impressed my the lightness of the pastry, which I gather is quite difficult to attain. Ron and I drank Malbec. I’m not sure what those with a preference for white wine enjoyed. An excellent apricot flan with ice cream and/or cream was to follow. Port, Madiera, coffee, and mints brought up the rear. Later came Christmas cake.
I had been misinformed about the likelihood of being prevailed upon to play Trivial Pursuit. Instead we played an hilarious game of Who?, What?, Where?. For those who, like me, haven’t come across this before, the idea is that each participant wears a cardboard hat into which is slipped a ticket with a person, object, or place inscribed thereon. The wearers, in order to establish their unseen identity, ask questions of the other players who may answer simply ‘yes’ or ‘no’. If the answer is in the affirmative the victim may ask another question; if in the negative, the next person in a clockwise direction has their turn. I was no better at this than I am at charades. It would have helped if I hadn’t assumed that the hats bore some relevance to what was written on the tickets. This, given that my hat was a deerstalker, caused me to waste two questions on Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. I managed to establish that I was a person no longer alive, then forgot that I was defunct.
All in all, mine was not a great performance. That of Helen and Bill’s son John on the CD ‘John Eales Sings Christmas’, with which we were afterwards entertained, was somewhat better.
Fortunately Flo opted to spend another night with her grandparents, so we arrived home earlier than expected. It wasn’t until rather later that we managed a little cheese and biscuits, after which I read Giles Foden’s introduction to Benjamin Cowburn’s ‘No Cloak, No Dagger’.
Rob, the ‘general handyman’ engaged by Penyards, who is extremely reliable, effective, and efficient, visited this dry morning, and confirmed our diagnosis that the leak from above was a matter for estate management, who are contracted by all the residents and landlords to look after the property as a whole. Nevertheless, having been unable to gain access to the flat upstairs because no-one was in, Rob and his colleague obtained a ladder, mounted the balcony from the outside, and cleared a blocked gully. Once the fuses were replaced the underfloor heating could be turned on to no ill effect.
In ‘Did You Mean The Off Break?’, I wrote of my initiation into Wimbledon College Under 14s cricket team. 
The team photograph taken in 1956 at a time when, at the end of the season, we had all reached fourteen, is number 40 in the ‘through the ages’ series. Give the Persil-washed condition of our whites, I imagine it must have been before the start of a game. Just in case anyone has trouble picking me out, I am third from the left of the viewer’s perspective in the back row. I believe fourteen was the age at which I became a permanent fixture of that particular row in group photographs. Next but one along stands Roger Layet, who I was, a year or so later, very pleased to persuade to play for Trinity Cricket Club. A correct, if somewhat painstaking batsman, Roger was an asset to any side.
Iain Taylor, as captain, sits in the centre of the front row. As a captain and a cricketer, he was in the Mike Brearley mould. Both intuitive and insightful characters who could make friends easily, they managed their players extremely well, yet neither was particularly outstanding as a player. You may think I have a bit of a nerve to describe a man who could captain England (Brearley, not Taylor) in such a way. Brearley was, however, probably the most outstanding captain this country ever had. He could manage Ian Botham, for goodness sake. It was in the Brearley years that our greatest all-rounder – famously aided and abetted by Bob Willis, particularly at Headingley in 1981 – performed his most miraculous feats. Mike Brearley, indeed, a psychotherapist, was described by Australian opponent Rodney Hogg as having ‘a degree in people’. And Iain could manage us. He did, of course, recruit me, so his judgement must be sound.
On Ian’s right (from his perspective) sits Mike Miliffe. Mike was the batsman who succumbed to my bowling as described in the above-mentioned post. I was to learn, playing alongside him, how fortunate I had been to succeed against him in the nets.
Our skipper is flanked on his left by Bob Hessey. Bob was an outstanding fast bowler. His speed and accuracy was aided by an easy, athletic, run to the wicket and flowing action. I could have done with that.
Flo is still with us, as is my friend Tony who arrived this evening. He, Jackie and I dined at The Foresters Arms in Frogham. In the dark and rain, stepping out of the car and walking to the pub gate, we found ourselves treading on what seemed like hard round balls. On closer inspection they turned out to be Brussels sprouts, no doubt scattered for hungry ponies. Unusually for a Thursday evening, we were the only diners. This was no doubt because most people were partied out after the last few days. We received our usual warm and friendly welcome. Jackie and I enjoyed battered haddock and chips, whilst Tony chose sausages and mash. He abstained from dessert whilst Jackie and I partook of sticky toffee pudding and ice cream. I had a couple of glasses of Malbec; Tony drank Wadsworth’s 6X; and Jackie drank lager.
A Timeless Test
Last night I finished reading the Folio Society collection of ‘The Best of the Raconteurs‘.
We have under floor electric heaters in our living room. During one of the heavy storms just before Christmas we noticed a pool of water under the grill. I telephoned Penyards, the owner’s agent, leaving a message as it was after hours. I received a phone call the next day advising me to take out the relevant fuse. The heaters themselves were, of course, switched off. This meant a climb to the top of the stepladders to investigate the ancient box. There were two appropriately marked fuses. I pulled them out and reported back. It is understood that this falls within the holiday period, however we have heard nothing since. Today, more rain in daylight enabled us to investigate the source of the water dripping down the elongated window, through the grill, and into the pit below. Jackie rigged up a catchment system and I left a message on Penyards’ answerphone. 
It is, of course, another holiday. Watch this space. In the meantime we will try not to drive ourselves insane listening to the drip drip drip that had previously been quietened by its slow slide down the window pane. The initial plastic receptacle was, perforce, replaced by a more adequate bucket. And another, for there is now more than one entry point for the rain, and the deluge continues to fall. The dining table and chairs were evacuated to what we hope will stay dry land.
Knowing that we were likely to have to pay for our lunch by playing Trivial Pursuit, as we prepared for a trip to Shelly and Ron’s I reminisced over the six hour marathon Matthew and I played against New Zealand in the form of Tess, her brother Warwick, and his now wife Lou. This took place on Boxing Day four or five years ago, and is never to be forgotten. It was rather like a Timeless Test match.
Until the cricket match between England and South Africa at Durban in 1939 tests were played out to their conclusion with no time limit. After nine days that game was abandoned as a draw, otherwise the England team would have missed the boat home. It was the last of its kind, and the longest ever played. In those more sedate times, cricket teams spent six weeks each way on a boat, and were not required to arrive jet-lagged and immediately pick up a bat.
I really don’t recollect the outcome of the said England v. New Zealand test. Did we abandon it as a draw? Did anyone win? Who cares? Mat and I struggled to contain ourselves and not give the game away, as, time and time again, Lou came up with the right answer, and Warwick, debating it to the death, talked her and Tess out of it. There was no time limit on these extensive discussions. I would imagine that when it came to the last, central, question of choice, Mat and I probably selected a category for our opponents that we knew Warwick would like, just to let them score the winning runs. But, as I say, I can’t remember. I was probably asleep by then.
As mentioned above we will be enjoying one of Shelly’s delicious meals followed by after-dinner games. After this we will return Flo and Scooby to Emsworth, with, if there is time before Jacqueline returns to Boston in Lincolnshire, a diversion to Mum’s where she has spent the New Year. It is likely to be too late, and I to be too sated, to write anything more tonight, so, with this early post, I wish all my readers a Happy New Year.