Letters from Berringford
These are letters that I wrote many years ago. I came across them recently when turning over a few old papers.
The Vicar planned our second day trip. His mind naturally works on ecclesiastical lines. Berringford is part of the diocese of ‘Bath and Wells’, so his thoughts moved from Bath to Wells automatically. Without hesitation or even consultation, he decided on Wells as our destination and so to Wells we went.
The day trip was the vicar’s idea from the start. He suggested an excursion to Bath and after sorting out the best day to go and how many cars to go in and who was to drive them, yesterday we finally went.
Stan is some way off pension age, but retirement is something that comes to all of us sooner or later, and here is Theresa’s story.
Not so cheerful, this letter. Well, that happens sometimes, but it was Annie’s fault, not mine. Skip it if you want to. ‘TGIF’.
When selling goods, words matter because our language shows the way we’re thinking or if we are thinking at all.
Air travel is glamourous only because it has declared itself so. We all feel we are more important in an airport than when we are standing, say, in the middle of a field.
I can always remember him as part of the scene on Saturdays. He was always there, just as the goalposts were always there.
Stan, the postman, told me about it one evening in this very bar. It’s a sad little story in its way.
When we travel, our only worry is to get from A to B before night comes. Our bag holds all we have. When we have little, that little gives us few problems.