Two Blokes from Smethwick

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I should have been driving down to Birmingham tomorrow for my Aunt Margaret's funeral. But winter lurgy, a very concerning weather forecast and old age have convinced me that driving 120 miles just now is probably not a good idea. I've always maintained that the Dirty Harry quote '...a man's gotta know his own limitations...' is probably the best advice anyone could follow. I tend to forget I'm getting close to seventy, and whilst in pretty good shape, the cracks are showing, and I have to just take things at an appropriate pace.

The thing is that Jane & I were watching - here's meta for ya - a programme on Talking Pictures TV that was aired in the late fifties, referencing the First World War. The realization that struck us was that both of us had grandfathers who were directly involved in the Great War: both non-combatants, but both at the very sticky end of it all. Jane's grandfather was a medical orderly in North Africa, and mine a stoker on the Atlantic convoys. Had either have perished - the most likely outcome - neither of our subsequent family lines would now exist: our parents, siblings and hundreds, maybe thousands of our cousins, would simply have never been brought into existence, including my now late Aunt Margaret and my dear cousin, Andrew. Pictured are my mom and Andrew's mom (left of picture), in 1955...

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