I went along as Nanette Olson was talking about her career. That and the fact that I'm talking to them in March next year - I still have to work out the subject.
So how many people living in Norfolk remembers Nanette? Her maiden name might jog a memory or two. She was Nanette Slack before she met her husband Bill Olson.
Nanette was a beauty queen in the days when being a beauty queen was a big deal. Who remembers watching Miss World?
Nanette has also written a couple of books. One was about her life with Bill and the latest entitled "And the Winner Is ..." is about her life in general from her days in the Eastend of London to her life today in Hethersett.
I am threequarters through reading the book which is very enjoyable. The thing that shines through it is her compassion and joy at the life she has led. Sadly, husband Bill was killed in an air crash over Norfolk. He was a pilot in the United States Air Force. Bill is buried in St Remigius Church in the village.
Which takes me to my own autobiography which I mentioned a few days ago. It already amounts to 50,000 words and the memories have just flowed. Writing it has been very easy and very enjoyable and it looks like I will be finishing it much earlier than I thought. It's really one long blog and I just hope somebody somewhere will get some enjoyment reading it. At least I've had enjoyment writing it.
Yesterday I played my first game of tennis for some weeks. It was a crisp and cool day but the weather was good for playing apart from being dazzled by the low sun which at times made it impossible to see the ball and I ended up playing on instinct.
On the way to tennis a young lady shouted at me.
"Billie Jean leave the man alone."
As I was going to play tennis, it seemed apt but I have to explain who Billie Jean was. It wasn't a siren from the Michael Jackson song and it wasn't Billie Jean King the famous tennis player.
This Billie Jean was a rather cute dog. And the young lady was shouting at her and not me.
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You will all be glad to know that there's just two days of my holiday blogs to go. And so here is the penultimate one.
Sometimes you strike up a conversation in the strangest places and sometimes it's because somebody has been listening into your conversation and feels it necessary to chip in.
So there we were in Perth Airport when the other threequarters informed me that England had beaten India by 10 wickets to reach the final of the T20 World Cup. Regular blog readers will know that I don't much care for this biff bang style of cricket which has as much to do with baseball as cricket but a world cup final is a world cup final after all
So I issued forth to the other threequarters. "Why are batsmen now called batters?" Of course I knew the answer. It's all down to political correctness and gender equality. But why they cannot be referred to as batsmen if they are men and batswomen if they are women, I haven't got a clue.
I almost choked on my cheeseburger when a young man chimed in with the reason which he claimed had something to do with the ruling classes and the game of cricket. I said I didn't have a problem with batsmen being called batsmen if they are men and batswomen if they are women.
"You've probably got a point," he said. Then he changed the subject slightly.
"Did you know that the Iranian women's football team is made up of men," he inquired?
Well of course I didn't so as granddaughter Poppy would say I Googled it and it's true. Eight members of the current women's team are men awaiting sex change operations. You learn something new every day.
But then there was great sadness before the flight. A couple we had nodded to and sat a couple of tables away from on the ship, sat next to us at the airport and said they had cut their holiday short by 11 days because their son had died. I couldn't imagine how they felt and I just didn't know what to say.