The explorer, Robin Hanbury-Tenison, was on the front page of The Times yesterday. He caught Covid-19 on a skiing holiday and nearly lost his life. Thanks be to God, he is at home with his wife in Devon and will celebrate his 84th birthday tomorrow.
Yesterday’s comment made me turn to Uncle Herbrand’s memoir, Firebrand, The Life and Times of Herbrand Alexander. The final pages are worth quoting; redolent of Patrick O’Brian, Paul Scott and The Navy Lark.
James Agate tells the story of a generous but punctilious host, one of whose guests arrived thirty minutes late for a luncheon party. Full of contrition she (of course) explained that she had stopped to buy a chandelier.
Yesterday’s post was fiction. Today’s sounds like fiction but is true. It starts in Pondolàndia – where? Is that what pretentious people call Poundland?
I parted with my 1960 edition of Crockford’s Clerical Directory but found it a good home in Wales. I judged, probably incorrectly, that it was surplus to requirements in my burgeoning shelves of reference books.
Francis Plowden’s comment on In the Name of St Patrick may have aroused your curiosity. I have persuaded him to turn Guest Blogger and tell an extraordinary tale.
Oh the shame of it. It turns out I have been self-isolating for years, living in social Siberia if you will. Anyone of any consequence has caught the virus but it hasn’t sneaked into No 56 yet. The Prince of Wales has had a royal flush.