john peel and benjamin britten fisticuffs in a bath of baked beans

First snow last night. Mr Radio says all sorts of roads were closed. Piffle, I said, there’s no snow down below. It’s all further up, on the lumpy bits, turning Holcombe Hill into a 99, with Peel Tower for a flake. Take that, you thrusting Victorian thingummy.

Talking of Mr Peel, Robert, not Ken John Peel or much-mourned John Peel (whose funeral service last week was, incidentally, just next door to where we held Nanna and Grandad’s, in the slightly bigger, slightly posher Cathedral. Have yet to talk to mum about it - am betting on a drawn-out story about how Gladie was hampered in getting to Shoefayre because of the size of Elton’s wreath), by now Molster and Zig should have shaken hands with Robbie The
Bobby, Bury F.C’s mascot. Inevitably. Who’s moved out from behind the desk into community policing for the day to shake hands with as many kids and Asda shoppers as possible. Children In Need and all that. As we are the northernmost-tip of the borough, he was due to shake up our kids early, around assembly time.

Husband near York doing ‘Team’ stuff at some acting college that can’t spell its name properly. (All actors are illiterates, did you not know that? Oh yes, hell it was at Bretton Hall, all those years ago; we, the studious, bookish English students patiently suggesting to every future Macbeth, Heda Gabler and Tommy Steele on the Drama B.A that as the sign said ‘Push’ it might be an idea to gently apply their weight to the door.)

York not so very far really; M62 and Sally-car willing, might even get to see him this side of The Simpsons. You’d think that, working where he does, there would be some kind of contractual obligation – a chirpy bewigged Irish half-Nelson – to get up to Children In Need-type antics. Really, I think BBC staff probably do less of the Baked-Beans In Bath, Man In Mascot Suit Scaring As Many Kids As Possible In One Day sponsored stuff than we normals.

Me? I’ve donated all of £2 so far. Kids have taken a quid apiece in for Children In Need, for the pleasure of stuffing their hair full of goo and colours. The kitchen’s still a toxic no-go area. Reckon that lump of ice outside the window, dripping in the sun, hasn’t fallen from the roof at all but is the last of our nearest iceberg, puddle-zapped by the combined aerosols of Mad Hair Day in Ramsbottom. If there’s no longer an Aldeborough, we apologise to the Suffolk coast.