St Valentine’s Day – Unchained

Posted on February 16, 2015 by volpeadrian

Well thank you Mr Grey this morning was thrown into chaos.

Several things I had planned failed to materialize because some people didn’t turn up!

So those amongst you who had forgotten their “safe-word”, I can never feel your pain.

How can you forget your safe word?

It’s not as though it needs to be 8 characters long, contain numbers, letters, capitals and a symbol or two……… Sorry my mind wandered and I started to have a Carol Vorderman moment. Nope, it’s not going away.

Think of a Countdown conundrum, it might help. No, that’s just made it worse.

Then there were those who were blushingly, “Sorry I’m late, I lost my keys”. These were the keys to what exactly?

By all accounts this will be the beginning of the threesome of books all being made into films, and means Valentine’s Day is all locked up for the next few years.

Not only florists, but now locksmiths will have a bumper day every year to look forward to.

As the late Larry Grayson nearly put it, “Oh what a Grey Day!”.

New Shirt Stock

Posted on February 16, 2015 by volpeadrian

When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life, but standing here among the clients of Volpe and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.

So that means another wine evening soon, and a delivery of new shirts to make those balmy spring days a sunrise closer.

8076 col 2 and 8013 col 4

8081 col 3 and 1

8121 col 4

8133 col 1 and 8022 col 3

8133 col 2 and 7100 col 7

8168 col 3 with white or red buttonholes

A St Valentine’s Day Special

Posted on February 14, 2015 by volpeadrian

This particular newsletter is rated PG.

Which thankfully means there are no photos!

I have written this to all of those of you who have to be Jamie Oliver in the kitchen, David Gandy in the gym, as sensitive as Ted Zeff and a Christian Grey in the bedroom (or any other room, inside or out). Yes you get the picture, and I think to myself. Me? Me? Me?

I have been reliably informed that the restaurants of London will be empty tonight.

There’s a new boy in town and he’s wearing grey, quite a lot of grey, in fact to be precise 50 different shades.

Gone is the usual romantic dinner, where the last hour is spent fending off young men offering you roses in order that you can cement your love for the person who is sat opposite you. Or at least be like the cement, and get laid.

Apparently there are only two places to be this evening.

Firstly, at the Shadow Theatre Clarendon Street where a friend will be offering a Valentine theatrical treat in the form of a Kabuki production. A neighbour of his has been selling tickets ready for a play which can often involve grotesque masks and facial expressions, performed partly behind a blind with only the shadowy outline of the figures visible. I leave the rest to your imagination until the curtain comes up or down, depending on your perspective.

Secondly, and for the less squeamish amongst you, it seems that everybody else is off to see 50 Shades of Grey. Apart from someone who has now admitted to seeing it last night. Yes, you know who you are and despite stating the contrary I know you loved it!

Well, the things they don’t teach you round the back of the bike sheds at school these days.

Guys, I know one or two of you feel press ganged into this. No, I mean press ganged!

Oooh, the minds of some of you! Anyway, if you don’t want to be recognised wear one of the Kabuki masks, and then you can nip round to the Shadow Theatre later!

If the worst comes to the worst and you find yourself slightly incapacitated, imagine you are Bond. No, no, no.

Not tied to a chair being assaulted by a person with a length of knotted rope, which I know may work for one or two of you. Rather act out a scene from 50 Shades.

And if you are in real trouble it may be time to use the last resort of any spy worth his salt in this predicament and bite down hard on that molar. No, not the one containing the cyanide things aren’t that bad yet, but the one containing the emergency Blue pill, and ‘Hey Presto’ you are ready for action!

That is apart from J, I use only his initial, if I used his full name it would make it too obvious who this person is. J turns up in the shop every time he gets stood up by whichever boy or girl he has a date with, bottle of white wine in hand, telling me that I’m all he has left.

Now this is someone who should be press ganged aboard a boat, but this one needs no second invitation!

I personally will be auditioning for 50 Shades of Just for Men, the sequel, and yes it will involve my wearing 50 shades of Lycra.

I hope you all have wonderful evening with the one you love, and may cup of love runneth over.

Vash pour me another!

Early February Newsletter 2015

Posted on February 3, 2015 by volpeadrian

Given what is going on in Europe, I have been looking for a new tax haven to store my vast wealth. By vast wealth I refer to the jar half full of coins that was on the mantelpiece. It was fuller, but I had to raid it for 20 pence pieces the other day in order to buy a bottle of Petrus.

I had kept a note of its contents in my Smythson’s ‘Soho Sinner’ notebook, but that has recently gone AWOL. Yes Dave, it appears the Creative Consultant has been doing a marvellous job. It seems I’m not the only one interested in setting up a complicated series of trusts and offshore companies to save a few pence.

I decided to look for a safe haven in order not to pay the Swiss a huge roll to put it under their mattress.

I had contemplated transferring it to the principality of Battenburg, but that would be the icing on the cake.

And who really knows what the Swiss are going to do next? One night we might go to bed and the next day, the entire nation may have disappeared only to re-appear, invisible to the naked eye, on the moon in some sort of despicable act undertaken by some evil genius who doesn’t look unlike a stretch Silvio.

Good – then the Martians can come along and steal it all.

A small l.e.d. lamp went off in an environmentally friendly fashion in my head.

How about keeping my huge stash like, onshore man, perhaps sink it in a Cornish Tin Mine, no, not as an investment. So I consulted a friend, a certain P.Diddy, he lives down that way. It’s not his real name, but then who’d really want to be called that.

Mr Combs, it’s over!

Goodness, I am throwing jokes around like confetti today.

I took my private jet to Newquay. HM’s government allows me this expense for the rapid transfer of stock and deliveries for all my important clients.

As PD and I flew over what appeared to be a small private island on our reckie, I thought to myself that old rogue Redknapp must be doing well. The greatest manger England never had. That’s almost like saying Steve McLaren was the greatest manager England never had.

You mean he was England manager? I never knew, really? Perhaps I just blotted those rainy days and Sundays from my memory, they always got me down.

However, the island turned out to be St Michael’s Mount. Even better, a rock that in times gone by was inhabited by pirates, what safer place could there be?

Here are my four options. It’s a Mad, Mad World.

End of the Rainbow

Land’s End

Sennen Cove

St Michael’s Mount

So we all now have the election on our minds. Election I said!

I see it going like this, thanks once again, to Monty Python.

The Tousled Blond Mayor of the Lake, his arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft a Glo’stick from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that Dave was to carry the Exchequer and THAT is why he is your Prime Minister.

Well, strange blond men lyin’ in ponds distributin’ swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate of the masses, not pond life and some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Related to the election, apparently there are those amongst you who will do anything to get to Ibiza.

Grant Shapps has been joking that although there will be stiff competition, only the hardest, working campaigners (ooohhh get you and your double entendres!) will be able to join Sam and Dave in a villa on holiday in Ibiza. So it will be days at Blue Marlin, chorizo by the pool and goodbye to Torymolinos.

Lucky old Dave even has a club named after him, DC10, a mixture of his initials and what he scores out of a 10 as a human baked bean. A friend of mine would say he’s “Awesome”. Not so!

So soft drinks all round and Adam Boulton will be pouring out the ‘Red Bull’, or just seeing a little red mist.

Whoa! Where do I sign?

If it means knocking on doors I’m up for it. I love a game of ‘Knock Down Ginger’.

As for kissing babes… me the Third Duke of Wimburn kissing women on their doorsteps for the sake of political gain, for an old school chum, with my reputation!

Oh sorry, babies! Eeewwww.

Apparently Nigel F is offering a weekend picking elderberries. Do elderberries become sloeberries, does the gin have anything to do with it, and was ‘his mother a hamster?’

Once again, thank you Monty Python….

So if the Camerons are going to enjoy the hedonistic lifestyle of the la Isla Bonita, Space, Amnesia, Es Paradis and Glitterbox at Boom, where the f*%$ am I going to go?

Anyways, that’s not the election that everyone is talking about.

We all want to know if David Ginola will become FIFA president and oust the bumbling, tumbling, fool Bepp Splater.

Daveeed would like to merge the mens and ladies’ World Cups in order that they take place at the same time.

OOoooooooooooh Davveeeed, me the Third Duke of Wimburn in the shower of the Brazilian Ladies changing room at the full time whistle with my reputation, I wouldn’t know which way to turn.

Daveeeeeed, you’ll be getting my vote and that of a good friend of mine who has now changed her profile photo to one of a young, coiffed and timberless Daveeeed.

By her own admission she has a little bit of crush on him, well him and Jose Mourinho. Well him, Jose, George Clooney and the Hemsworths. Well Daveed, Jose, George, the Hemsworths and… . Stop this is getting a little out of hand. Is there someone you don’t have a crush on? I don’t have all day to write this!

I took the liberty of inserting a photo of what the majority of people feel are the ideal woman, followed by that of the ideal man.

Well I don’t know what else you expected!

Given these days of sexual liberty, I will allow you all to decide on which side of the fence you will fall.

However, one amongst you, and a man amongst men, has another type of crush. After purchasing a new pair of shoes, he will place the right shoe next to him on the bed on a velvet pillow. The shoe must not have been worn, the shoe tree must be in place, and it must be freshly polished. He will then stroke and buff the shoe until the smell of fresh polish puts him to sleep.

OK, OK, the last bit I made up, but as for the velvet pillow, well OK, I made that bit up as well, the silk pillow cases he uses are good enough. I just didn’t think it sounded weird enough. Really?

These are photos of shoes for those of you who not satisfied with the other photos above and require something a little stronger. A little bit of posh, a little bit of rough and of course a little something for those of you who grew up on a farm.

Headed for a Velvet Pillow

A Little Bit of Rough

No Sign of a Struggle

And finally a panorama……

St Michael’s Mount

January Newsletter 2015

Posted on January 19, 2015 by volpeadrian

It is good to see so many faces back from the Bacchanalian festivities at New Year.

Today is supposed to be one of the most depressing days of the year, but the sun is shining, so just how bad can it be?

Well now you’re bored; those resolutions are becoming a pain in the behind, and worse; you are SOBER.

Week three of; “Not a drop will pass my lips”, waking in the morning, wondering as Winston Churchill nearly put it, looking at himself in the mirror; “I was drunk, Miss, but this morning I am sober, and you are still ugly!”

And even worse; you’ve been back at work a couple of weeks and just to show how bored everyone really was; the Swiss, yes the Swiss of all people; decided to do something dramatic to shake everyone up a little.

Had the St Bernard been doing the rounds, doling out the Schnapps?

No, they didn’t delay a train, make a cuckoo clock that sang out of tune or wittily divert a ski slope so a Russian Oligarch and his family ended up in the middle of Andorra.

No, what they did was to remove the cap that pegged the Swiss Franc to the Euro! Whoops, panic set in across the global markets, and a Rolex watch quadrupled in price. OK, not really.

It had the immediate effect of making beans on toast in a mountain side restaurant in Gstaad £100. My goodness I should Coco, that’ll be an extra £50.

Well who’d have thought it from the Swiss?

I have been in Italy visiting Bologna, Florence and Pitti Uomo.

Pitti Uomo I have discussed before; but it is a trade show devoted to menswear, dare I say men’s fashion? Well I daren’t say it again!

This is the first group of ‘Fashionistas’ I saw, sporting the latest craze for ‘Boy Band Chic’ where Louis Walsh meets Conchita Wurst.

Boy Band Chic

For those amongst you, who sport a beard, please accept my apologies in advance for any offence I ~~may~~ will cause.

I wore a suit on the two days I attended, when I would have felt more at home dressed as Santa Lycra.

One hall denied me access because I wasn’t looking “Lumbersexual” enough.

WHAT?????????

I looked around, it wasn’t an osteopath’s convention, it wasn’t that dark, no one was bent double wearing some sort of weird harness, holding their back and muttering under their breath “I’m never doing that again”.

Apparently it means a particular look, a hipster beard, check shirt, hat and short trousers and heavy boots. Now at this point I am losing the will to dress again, but I can see men with earrings, sunglasses indoors, bracelets, braces and all the other requirements.

Monty Python clearly got it right with the ‘Lumberjack Song’. Michael Palin sings:

I cut down trees, I skip and jump,
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women’s clothing,
And hang around in bars.

I chop down trees, I wear high heels,
Suspenders and a bra.
I wish I’d been a girlie
Just like my dear papa.

I am now prepared for this eventuality, I have bought a false beard to carry in my pocket for a fashion emergency, and if you happen to notice that my trouser pocket is bulging, and a few stray hairs can be seen at the pocket opening despite my use of Captain Fawcett’s Moustache wax, fear not; I believe that that if it don’t fit, don’t force it.

Hahahaha. Sorry, couldn’t resist. I knew I’d get that joke in eventually. It’s only been 4 years of toil.

Anyway I have added my twist on the ‘Hipster/Lumbersexual’ look, false beard included and added a photo, and you’ll be happy to see it doesn’t involve Lycra.

Anyway here’s one for The Sartorialist!

Hipster

I know if you didn’t know it was me you’d never know. I took this indoors as you know I would never want to be seen in the street incognito!

Anyway, enough fashion nonsense, dahlinks. You don’t read my newsletter for fashion news or advice. I just post that when it comes in, and given current evidence I haven’t got a clue about anything related to clothing of any shape or form.

I was ill during my trip to Italy, but I did have a dinner with Emanuele to celebrate his birthday, but after that I was consigned to bed for days, not because of food or alcohol, but with a very nasty cold.

However in celebration of Emanuele, here is our annual photo.

Emanuele et moi

I am Xerxes, and earlier I was lain on a chaise longue, minions scurrying here and there peeling me grapes, applying fresh gilt to my skin in order that I might blind anyone who wants an audience with me and my magnificence, and no that is not a euphemism.

Sat humbly at the end of my super sofa, is DJ Dave Cam.

He’d searched out an audience with the greatest dictator the world has ever known, who has conquered more worlds than he has heard of, seen more baked beans than there are in a tin.

He’s put his sunglasses back on, his inability to frown or give any expression of any sorts means we have no idea what he feels about anything, and the glare from my golden glory is so strong that he is rendered inert,

Poof! a puff of smoke, and at his shoulder is ‘Little ol’ Nick’, whispering in Dave’s ear, “I can deliver you the Nation and Europe too. U keep the ones I don’t want, and we’ll get along famously.”

For heaven sake that’s the last time I touch J Collis Browne’s Linctus.

I”ve not been well, but I’ll never touch another drop of that, it’s back to the Absinthe minded faerie for me.

I was starting to hallucinate that we’d be stuck with an Italian style, rotating, coalition government, everyone fighting like rats in a sack, an unholy alliance between Nick Farage and the Scottish Nationals, with the Greens shining a light on it, via the open fridge door. You’d think they’d have they’d have looked at the efficiency rating stepped inside closed the door and been left in the cold, only later to be asked to appear on Gogglebox alongside DJ Dave for ‘Street Cred’.

Right, that really is enough linctus. No it’s not, yes it is, no it’s not. You two stop arguing with yourself, and pass the bottle here, it doesn’t really contain opiates does it?

Oh yes it does, oh, no it doesn’t, oh blimey, oh yes it does.

Mustn’t share this with the other personalities, they’ll all want a sip, and it is January and of course, “Not a drop will pass my lips”.

But no one said a thing about Cough Syrup!

I had to have photographic evidence that this was real and not a hallucination, but then I suppose only in Italy?

Polizia?
Only in Italy!

And to finish, a liitle note to Neil and Scratch.

“Scratchie, get well soon.”

Please read the last newsletter in tribute to Marie Eichner.

Marie Eichner

Posted on January 16, 2015 by volpeadrian

I’d been mulling over how I was going to write this for a while, but it seems that for the second time in a short period I am the barer of sad tidings.

After losing Kathleen in November; unfortunately Marie my breakfast partner of many years passed away a couple weeks ago. She hadn’t been well for much of the last year, but we tried to breakfast together as regularly as possible.

It all started about 10 years ago, when Marie was in her mid-seventies.

One morning I was sat at breakfast in The Wolseley reading “Corriere della Sera”, trying to improve my Italian, when Marie approached me. She said how nice it was to see an elegantly dressed young man sat, relaxing, reading a newspaper and enjoying his breakfast without fiddling with his phone.

I was flattered and this approach completely disarmed me. The fact that I had been ‘fiddling with my phone’, and had put it down only a few moments before had escaped her. I asked her if she’d like to join me, she accepted and our friendship began.

Initially it would be coincidence that we would both be there at the same time, but in more recent times we’d phone each other to make sure that we would be about and I suppose we would meet up a couple of times a week.

Often she’d wonder what people thought of the two of us, nattering away at breakfast, a modern day “Harold and Maude” perhaps.

Even after her bypass operation we’d joke about her pills; how she’d keep tabs on what she had taken, and what she hadn’t.

I know that she was treasured by everyone at The Wolseley and that feeling was mutual. She made an effort to get to know everyone and with her husband Kurt, they were regulars at several of Chris and Jeremy’s restaurants, and she made friends in all of them.

The last time I spoke to Marie was just before her birthday which fell on Christmas Eve, she wasn’t feeling great, but was looking forward to spending Christmas surrounded by Kurt, her daughter Sally, her husband Harry and the grandchildren.

I was, moved to write this after breakfast at The Wolseley this morning. I like eating there, especially breakfast, and whether it is alone or with a friend, when I had Marie for company I always felt privileged.

Like Kathleen, I will miss Marie dearly.

Unfortunately Marie never accepted my request to have a photograph us taken together.

Marie was wonderful to be around and she loved being surrounded by people, making friends everywhere she went. We would joke that I’d end up pushing her round in a bath chair, Marie waving regally as I pushed her down Piccadilly from The Wolseley to Fortnum and Mason, covered with a cashmere blanket. Sadly, in the end I never had that pleasure.

You can never have enough hats, scarves and gloves………

Posted on December 18, 2014 by volpeadrian

Some last minute deliveries of new stock and some possible Christmas Gifts, if you may have forgotten….. Shame on you.

And no photos of Santa Lycra, this time!

Cashmere Scarves followed by silks if you would like to make them reversible.

Some new knitwear merino and cashmere blend.

Some cashmere and cotton blend.

And some scarves and hats, and gloves.

November Newsletter 2014

Posted on December 12, 2014 by volpeadrian

New Stock follows this Newsletter,however this one includes at least one image you will find disturbing!

One of the reasons for the tardiness was the death of my Aunt Kathleen aged 96 years and 364 days, peacefully in her sleep. If you would be kind enough to read the newsletters posted just before this one, both she and I would be very happy and you will get a sense from whence the madness stems!

I am sending this out on the biggest party night of the year, with the exception of New Year, so that you will all have something to stare at bleary-eyed during tomorrow’s hangover. Remember joyfully that I don’t suffer from them!

To those of you sipping on Dom Perignon and Krug, don’t overdo it, save a bottle for me.

Basket Case

Had to get that photo out of the way; Paul and Ines, I am speechless, but that’s because I have a brownie in my mouth.

Well I have had to start again, I somehow managed to delete, even in this auto saved world, the draft of the newsletter.

It was going to be the greatest one yet, the funniest, the one most likely to reduce you to tears of joy and tears of sadness. My “Cinquanta sfumature di Grigio”, più piselli Norma.

But sadly the dog ate my homework, the collection was stolen from the warehouse the night before it was to be shown, the cheque is in the post!

I could of course have copied one from before and would you have known the difference? Probably not. So this one is BARKING!

The newsletter is now read in 110 countries, and I am stalked on several social media sites in several more, you know who you are, and so do I.

No it wasn’t the little green spiders in Coogan’s Bluff, wasn’t Tisha Sterling gorgeous, and mental!

I hadn’t shared anything with Neil or Eugene, it all started much earlier.

Any excuse for a photo!

Tisha Sterling

For those who don’t believe that I am mad, here is my Santa outfit. Now you could have had this as a Christmas card, now where did I hide that Werther’s Original.

Santa Lycra

That’s my kind of Christmas Onesie, my David Gandy look.

Like comparing me to David Gandy, life often looks as though it’s going to offer diamonds and ends up giving you bricks. This happened recently happened when I hired a car. The guys at Avis excitedly told me they’d upgraded my car to a BMW 4 series with an M specification.

Pah! M spec meant leather interior and heated seats. If I wanted heated seats, I’d wriggle around a little. The engine was a 2 litre diesel and automatic gearbox had four settings Eco (very kind to bunnies), Comfort (Werther’s Original), Sport (Tear the skin off a rice pudding, just), and Sport with all the driving aids turned off (Tear the skin off a rice pudding, but just don’t try going round a corner at anything over the speed limit), as if I would! All show, and no go.

Ahhh, I’ve just remembered what I’d started writing in the other Newsletter that I lost.

Starlings, they don’t like poppadums!

I tried to find a photo of the two together, failed miserably therefore it must be true.

Thank you Reggie Perrin, I’d forgotten. Not only is the madness hereditary, it has been absorbed by the process of osmosis using society’s semi-permeable membrane; television, and a diet of Monty Python and Reginald Perrin.

I also predict; come the first warming rays of sun in springtime we will see the demise of the beard. The reason, well not only do starlings not like poppadums; they won’t nest in beards, mainly because the guys put up one heck of fight when the starlings start their murmation.

And all because I liked this photo.

Murmation

Later in the month I will publish a list of trends for next year, some ups, some downs and a few things that are not likely to change.

Hopefully we will sense and get rid of things such as Black Friday, replace it with either Dodgeball,or Rollerball, both of which will be much safer.

In the not too distant future Black Fridays will no longer exist, but there will be Rollerball.

The footage was fascinating, disturbing and funny all at the same time. We of course do not stoop so low as to offer a Black Friday event, our wine tastings offer a similar experience with alcohol involved.

A big thank you to all who attended, the next one will take place in January, when you are all supposed to be dry.

Wolf who is a regular is big into 3D printing has produced a Christmas Quiz which will be mailed out with the Christmas Newsletter. Don’t worry he does get out a little and is headed to LA and NYC for the festivities.

Now a little plug.

I have a friend and it is not Wolf, who is starting to produce 3D printed chess pieces from his own CAD files.

Here are some examples, maintaining the bird theme.

Rook and Pawns

For Aunt Kathleen

Posted on December 9, 2014 by volpeadrian

Kathleen Phelan

The other morning my phone buzzed at 5.30am; I was half-awake, and I rolled over to see who the email was from.

But it wasn’t an email, it was a reminder that it would have been my Aunt Kathleen’s 97^th birthday. It would have been, but she died peacefully in her sleep the day before.

Kathleen was my mum’s sister, and those of you who know me well will have heard me tell of her bizarre and interesting life, and lifestyle.

She had always lived a nomadic existence and until she died, lived in a caravan and travelled around by hitchhiking, even if was just to go into nearby Cheltenham to place a bet on a horse; that was her life.

We were a close family, but as Kathleen got older the chances to see her became less frequent. She no longer really liked the hustle and bustle of life in London, as she had done in her youth. The Coach and Horses in Soho was her local, hanging out in Ronnie Scott’s or The French House, friends with Picasso and always staying with him as she hitched through the South of France.

Here are a couple of stories to try to explain how she lived her life, and hopefully there will be more stories that she will have written down and my brother, my mother and I can uncover to tell you in the future.

There was a time when you were required to list your occupation on your passport. Whilst I always dreamt of putting down astronaut, racing driver or secret agent, Kathleen’s occupation was described as “storyteller”.

Having this in her passport gained her access to all sorts of strange and wonderful places. During the time of the Shah in Iran, she turned up to register at the British Consulate in Tehran and was asked to explain what she meant by storyteller. Word got back to the Shah of this strange English woman and she was summoned to the palace to explain. My brother and I still have the book that she was presented with, a gift from the Shah.

Life was not all palaces, she just loved talking to people and being on the road where one story often led to a new one.

She could make going out for a pint of milk an adventure. Sometimes when staying with my mother this could be inconvenient and a tad frustrating.

Mum asked Kathleen as she was going to walk down in to town one morning to get the newspapers; The Daily Telegraph and The Racing Post, if she wouldn’t mind picking up a pint of milk.

So off Kathleen wandered, at the end of the road she stuck out a thumb and rather than walk the half mile into town, she’d hitch a lift.

As luck would always have it, a car soon stopped and offered her a lift. Conversation followed and as the driver was going to Exeter, some 60 miles from Minehead, Kathleen thought she’d go along for the ride.

She wandered around Exeter, bought the papers, the milk and hitched a lift back to Minehead although it would always be out of the driver’s way, she would keep them spellbound with her stories and they would always drop her at her required destination like a taxi.

By this time mum’s tea had gone cold.

I will always remember the moments sat spellbound as she recounted one story after another. We spent last New Year together with my mother and all got drunk together.

At the weekend we cleared her caravan of a lifetimes worth of objects, enough Elastoplast to stretch to the moon and back, pens so that one was never out of arms reach and most importantly more than 20 lever arch files full of stories and documents that will tell a remarkable story.

Her various caravans that served as home have been parked in fields and caravan parks all over the south of England, but in the last few years she couldn’t have found better friends than Peter, Jan, Adrian and June who ran the park where she lived.