23rd January 2022

 Yesterday was 22.1.22 here. Maybe that’s why I went backwards in my dream last night. It was 1952 and I was playing in the street. All my long-gone family were there. My brothers were playing marleys with friend Victor in the dirt, their feet in ballet’s first position, to catch the marbles. I watched for a while. Victor said you don’t have to go to school if you don’t want to. Years later, he was still working as a teacher! I told Mrs S, our neighbour, that I couldn’t wait for September when I would start school. You’ll wish your life away, she said. She’s now long gone. My father would read the racing results and fill in the football pools coupon, State Express ash falling on the lino. I never understood all the different lines. What on earth did 8 from 11 mean? I still don’t! We all had to shush when the radio was on. Nottingham Forest 2…pause…Aston Villa nil. Depression all around, but at least my team won yesterday!  Neither the radio news nor the national papers ever reported on happenings in Downing Street. Headlines blared the important stuff, which country was fighting another. That’s what the news is for. If I wanted the gossipy stuff, like who went to a party, I’d just ask Mrs S next door.