I talk to myself. Who doesn’t!

They’re coming to take me away…

Have We Had Help?

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Years ago when I was a small boy I witnessed something which might explain a few things about me, if you are at all interested…

My mother and I were walking into Beccles where I still live today from the farm we lived on in the village of Barsham. Armed with our ration books in mum’s purse we were going for the weekly ration pickup (two real eggs, two ounces of marg, either four paper-thin slices of bacon or what used to pass for a half-dozen sausages, mainly containing gristle and suet). From memory the latter were bloody awful! So much so that it was years before I could face a proper sausage. This weekly ritual was a hangover from the Second World War still in operation.

But I digress…

We passed an old man on the road walking the other way towards Bungay who was talking to himself. I…

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