A Boyhood Skill.

When I was aged between about eight and ten, I had a friend called Michael Bourne whose mother was Austrian. On one occasion I remarked to him ‘Your mother’s a Gerry.’ His father was within earshot and turned to me angrily:

‘What did you say?’

‘I said Michael’s mother is a bit fat and looks like a cherry.’

Mr Bourne was so impressed that he managed a smile, and a few years later my capacity for quick thinking dwindled completely when I discovered the delights of alcohol. It deserted me for ever. It did.