'87 Exhibition

     First, all those who didn’t see me on T.V. put a £1 coin in the begging bowl provided. Yes friends, I was interviewed on Beeb 2 no less, and got several minutes of free publicity, which did the business a lot of good- hence having half as much here as I would normally have. But has it spoiled me? Has it buggery. I’m still the same loveable, simple, idle, shiftless soul I always was. I’ve had a damn’ good season on the boat, and if I can just raise the price of a turkey and a puddin’, and maybe a bag of nuts, then I’ll be happy to go home at the end of the week to Valerie and our two delightful kiddies, not forgetting Barney the wonderdog, to while away the Winter under the sacred roof-tree, all happy and bells, Christmas stockinged and brandy snapped, toes held close by crackling fires, and hearts held open by tiny fingers, as we watch for the first signs of the weary travellers on their way to Bethlehem.

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'88 Exhibition

      As some Latin fogey said ‘Tempus don’t ‘arf fugit when you’re surrounded by it. It hardly seems yesterday I was packing up and going home, and here I am setting out my stall again.

    Another 12 months have flown across St. Benet’s marsh like swallows going south; 365 days have skimmed past ‘Walrus’ like leaves on the water; Summer slipped through a gap in the clouds one morning, shot down the river like shit through a goose, and the rain had closed in behind it by teatime.
     The Grottles came up trumps again- bless ‘em. I managed a fair trade  peddling their future memories of the grand times they’ll swear they had- you can’t beat last year’s holiday for sun, no matter when last year was. If a few more had rung Blokes, or Haysoosans, instead of sitting in airport lounges for a fortnight, Barclays would have been better pleased, but mustn’t grumble.
     And now it’s the season of ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’ and roast chestnuts in London Street. Time to briefly tempt the artistic palates of the worthy burghers of Norwich (I said burghers, Missis) to see if I can peddle just enough of these windows which look out onto marsh and river and mill- just enough to raise the subsidy for a short tour of Sainsbury's, and then we’ll away to our little home to raise the barricades of firewood and freezer-meat, woollies and candles, lamp oil and Barneybeejolais, against marauding Winter and all his wet, windy and freezing cronies, leaving a hole just big enough for Christmas to squeeze thro’ with holly in his cap, mince pies in his pockets, his muffler knitted with peace and good-will, and his whiskers smelling of brandy.

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