Grandfather’s footsteps

In the good old days, when Hackney still had a proper swimming pool, I used to do lengths every morning with an old boy called Bob. And, because I recognised him as a man of a particular generation, I used to prod him in the changing room afterwards to tell me his war stories.

But Bob only ever told me one and it was rather depressing.

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2 thoughts on “Grandfather’s footsteps”

  1. Wow is this like a longer version of the brain farts contained in your new book “365 ways to write drivel to prove you are an idiot to liberals”

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