Des Res.

This morning I collected forms for redirecting mail from The Old Lady's house to my home, it seemed appropriate as I am fortunate in still being able to read and, hopefully, understand any official correspondence. Unfortunately, they gave me the forms for a deceased TOL, not a live one; I realised the problem about ten minutes before they closed for lunch so rushed out to pick up the right ones. Having filled in the forms I was able to get TOL to sign (a process that is somewhat unpredictable, but no-one has complained yet). Then began the problems of finding suitable means of identification to prove that she was not intending to practise money laundering (by redirecting mail?) I managed her bank debit card but the other IDs required were a utility bill dated within the last three months (I've long since cancelled paper bills in favour of electronic ones), and either a passport (she's not been abroad since she was 80) or a driving licence (she's not driven since then either). I ended up just grabbing every thing I could find and pleaded with Mr Post Master; he was sympathetic, saying that the high heed-yins don't live in the real world, ticked some boxes, took some money and competed the business; whatever happened to the statutory jobsworths that we have come to expect in such circumstances.

On the way back I noticed that the thatched cottage was up for sale and waited for some people to move into the picture - a delightful family duly obliged. TOL often mentions people who have lived there, top of the list is the famous England cricketer (wicket-keeper actually) from the 50s, Tom Graveney. Now cricket is a sport I hate with a passion having been forced to play it at skool; not being very good at it I was always put to field as far from the sharp end as is possible and to bat last man, which meant my turn only came up after close of play. I occasionally wonder if the establishment improved after I left, but I quickly lose interest.