On a wet Sunday afternoon at boarding school time seems to pass slowly. Today a week passes more quickly. This is because aged eight a single afternoon takes up as much memory space as a month now that my memory has become chocker.
I didn’t know Charles Dickens and Alexandre Dumas both died in 1870, nor did I fully appreciate that some of their best known novels were published as serials.
My grandfather expressed consternation when I got a job in the City after university. I remember him shaking his head, saying he’d always thought I should go into the church and have a parish in the West of Ireland with some good fishing and snipe bogs … perhaps woodcock, he added hopefully.
When using the lavatory in an English country house there are two things of which you may be certain: the seat will be wooden and there will be a faded copy of The English Gentleman by Douglas Sutherland.