I would like to start with the serious.
Many many many years ago - too many - I used to coach junior football. This was in the days when coaches didn't have to have qualifications, so I never bothered to get any.
Some of my coaching involved working with two other guys - Ian Harrison and Andy Newstead. Ian died a couple of years ago and yesterday I heard that Andy has died. I feel very sad as these were good people. Many local people will remember both Ian and Andy with affection.
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Slightly less serious and much more pleasant. For the first time ever I wrote those fantastic two words The End.
I have never completed a book until now. Yesterday myself and friend John got together to complete our book on Le Paradis Massacre.
We did a solid morning's writing and then just before 7 pm in the evening I was able to write those two words. Now to get it printed.
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Now something a touch lighter. It was the monthly old farts' lunch. We got round to talking about coach holidays and the strange people you can come across.
I thought of three amusing incidents on our various coach trips. We were on our way to Bavaria and turned the corner in the road and there in front us was the River Mosel.
"Looks just like Hemsby," shouted an elderly lady.
Now for those of you who aren't familiar with the Norfolk seaside village of Hemsby, all I can say is it's nothing like the Mosel.
The same woman was given a bottle of water when we stopped at a service area in Belgium. Her travelling companion asked her if she was enjoying the water.
"Not really, it tastes as if it's been watered down," came the reply.
On another trip we got to our designated seats to be confronted by a fellow traveller with a measuring tape. He informed us that we had two inches more leg room than him and, as he and his wife were taller than us, we might consider swapping seats with them.
We did consider it for a nano second and then declined. We did move seats, however, when we found a lady with mobility problems was having trouble getting into her seat towards the back of the coach. We offered to swap with her and she was most appreciative.
My fellow old fart was tickled by somebody on his latest coach trip who insisted on reading signposts and announcing distances to various places along the route.
There's a bit of a book race going on amongst the old farts. We now have our book ready and so does Richard H who has written one about his hero Albert Reynolds. Reynolds was an Hungarian poet, writer, philosopher and peacenik. Who will win the publication race - only time will tell.