LT and I tend to sit chatting over dinner. When he’s away, dinner takes five or ten minutes to eat but usually it’s an hour or so. It’s probably why we never watch television, that we’re too busy talking.
About the old days, tonight, both his and mine – plus Russell’s wartime boyhood too, which I came to in a roundabout way because we were talking about family businesses. At the end, Tim said I should write these things down because they’ll be lost otherwise. And I said, I have tried but it’s hard to do so: to write someone else’s story in a readable voice. You can do it for yourself but it becomes stilted when it’s about someone else, unless you are a very good writer, which I’m not – blogging is just a matter of sitting down and talking to friends – and possibly if you fictionalise it. I did start stories from Russell’s childhood, quite some time ago, but I didn’t keep it up. I should look for it and try again. He was born in 1936 so remembered the whole of the war, through a child’s eyes. I’ll have another go.
I can’t remember someone’s name tonight. I knew her better than her two brothers, but I know that they were Roy and Aubrey Skinner and I don’t remember her first name. The three of them inherited their parents’ farm and lived in the lovely old (completely unmodernised, they didn’t even have mains electricity) farmhouse all their lives. But what was her name? It’ll come to me, but it hasn’t yet.
Doreen. As soon as I said I couldn’t remember, I did. I published the post and then, immediately, remembered. Pfft, innit.