Hello All It is almost lunchtime on Saturday and a beautiful day here in Oxfordshire. I was thinking what I might usefully contribute to prove that I, too, am still here when I recalled a similar weekend in 1936 or thereabouts. Around this time my Aunt Mabel took me, one Sunday morning just before lunch, to a little shop of sorts at the top of Lowfield Road in West Hampstead, which sold beer and vinegar. Nan would often have a small jug of stout, which she kept hidden under the dresser behind the cloth curtain that concealed the coal box. Nan drinking beer was definitely not acceptable in grandfather’s eyes. But this morning we were to purchase vinegar for mint sauce. Nan had chopped the mint leaves on her chopping board ready. Aunt Mabel, then about 24 years old, took an empty bottle and off to the shop we went. When the bottle was filled I begged to be allowed to carry it and Aunt Mabel gave in. Just over half way home I tripped over and fell breaking the bottle and placing the palm of my hand neatly upon the jagged glass. Blood, tears and vinegar everywhere! Poor deaf Mabel was distraught. By good fortune a passer by transpired to be a first-aider and bandaged me up and we arrived back at the house safely but without vinegar or bottle. Sixty-eight years on I still bear the scar to remind me of this episode. Anybody else got a scar to remind them of something? Len