RIP Michael David ‘Mick’ Doggett, 30th March 1944 – 3rd January 2023

For the benefit of family and friends of my late father-in-law unable to attend the service, here’s the eulogy I delivered for him today:

Good morning, everyone, and thank you for joining us to celebrate the life of Michael David Doggett, or Mick as he was generally known outside the family to whom he was a beloved husband, Dad, Grandad or Great-grandad Mick-Mick. I’m his daughter-in-law Helen, and it’s my privilege to welcome you all, especially if you’ve travelled some distance to be here – like Mick’s younger son Tony, daughter-in-law Sarah and granddaughter Ellie, and Barbara and Elaine – or if you’re watching the webcast like our nephew Adam, Tony’s eldest, serving with the RAF overseas, and cousins Joe and Margaret Doggett in Canada, and Terry and Pauline Harris in Spain.

It’s a great honour to speak today on Mick’s behalf, and I hope the music we’ve just heard has got you in a suitably sorrowful mood. It was chosen by Michael, my husband, as the saddest, most beautiful piece he knows, because his sister Paula recalls their father once saying that he didn’t want there to be a dry eye in the house at his funeral. So get your hankies out and have a good blub, knowing that Mick would be duly gratified by an outpouring of grief – although given his sense of humour, I’m sure he’d like you to shed a few tears of laughter as well.

I find it painfully ironic that I’ve come to appreciate my father-in-law’s extraordinary character and qualities better in death than in life, because despite having known one another since Boxing Day 2004, it wasn’t on a close personal level. In all those 18 years we probably never spent more than an hour or so talking alone together; we were usually in a foursome with Carol and Michael, or part of a larger gathering with other family and friends – which speaks volumes about the nature of the relationship many of us enjoyed with Mick. A devoted husband and family man, he was also a gregarious spirit who loved socialising, dining out, drinking and dancing, a joker and storyteller, life and soul of the party; good fun, good company and a good conversationalist with wide-ranging interests from angling and allotmenteering to history, reading, travel and sport.

Mick’s determination to live and enjoy life to the full may stem from a boyhood fear that it wouldn’t last long. Born at home on Pyncheon Street in Wakefield on 30th March 1944, Mick spent much of his childhood being cared for by his Granny Doggett while his father Elias and mother Jenny were at work; then in 1953, the nine-year-old Mick and his parents came to live on Cubley Avenue, one of the first families to move onto the new Kettlethorpe estate, which in those days was still very rural. Raised as a Roman Catholic, Mick attended St Austin’s Catholic School, where he loathed the strict, sour-faced nuns. Schoolmates remember him as a quiet boy, which is hardly surprising – when he was 12, Mick was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a rare cancer of the lymphatic system with a poor prognosis. So while his death at the age of 78 seems almost premature by modern standards, it’s actually 60-odd years overdue according to his doctors in 1956, who told him he would probably die before his eighteenth birthday, and that if he survived until his 21st, ‘it would be a miracle.’

Mick suffered the crude radiation therapy of the day, which affected the development of his neck and made his voice quiet and husky; he was also taken on a pilgrimage to Lourdes to take the waters, which his mother firmly believed was responsible for his cure. Either way, with characteristic Doggett stubbornness, Mick refused to die; and not only that, he saved the life of another. This also happened when he was 12, and seeing a little girl fall into Kettlethorpe Lake, like the true Boy Scout he was, Mick jumped in without a thought for his own safety and pulled her to the side, then went home and never said a word to his parents because he was scared of being told off for wetting his clothes – so the first Li and Jenny knew about it was when items appeared in the local press about the modest schoolboy hero who saved three-year-old Barbara Hughes from drowning. Mick’s brave and selfless act earned him a special prize from his school, a gold-nibbed fountain pen and pencil set presented by the Roman Catholic Bishop of Leeds, and means that Barbara can be here today, with her sister Elaine, to join us in saying goodbye.

Growing up under the threat of early death, it’s no wonder that Mick wanted to make the most of life while he could. Like many working class lads of the time, he left school at 15, glad to escape the hated nuns and begin adult life. His first industrial apprenticeship was so badly paid that he soon quit to earn better wages as a labourer in the building trade, working on various sites including Kettlethorpe High School and the Barnsley Road railway bridge.

One of the alarming breed now dubbed ‘teenagers’, Mick loved the energy and excitement of rock n’ roll music, and the fashions that came with it. Predictably, given his inborn dislike of authority and being told what to do, Mick became a Teddy Boy, helped by his thick dark hair that formed naturally into a quiff ending in a Bill Haley kiss-curl, which must have made him an object of envy among his mates. Always a leader of the pack, he cut a distinctive figure in his sharp grey or dark green Italian suits with trademark coloured silk linings, or long jackets and tight black drainpipes with zips at the ankles, worn with winklepickers. As well as teaching the other lads how to dress, he taught them how to dance to his favourite sounds including the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly and Fats Domino; but unlike the more riotous Teds, Mick was no theatre-wrecking tearaway. He wanted good jobs, not jail; to be his own man, financially independent and in control of his own destiny. So after working hard, Mick played hard too, dating girls or boozing and bopping with his mates round Wakefield, until one night in 1961 changed the course of his life forever – an apt point to stop for a real tear-jerker chosen for this occasion by Mick himself, possibly because it sums up his attitude to life:

Music: When I was 17, Frank Sinatra – 4 min 26

The good thing that happened to 17-year-old Mick on that fateful night was his first meeting with the beautiful, blue-eyed blonde Carol Harris at the local youth club. Carol was only 15 and too young to date, but she must have made an impression because when they bumped into each other a year later at the Mecca ballroom, he asked her out. They enjoyed going dancing at the Embassy or Mecca, or to the pictures; and that Christmas, Mick escorted a thrilled and impressed Carol to her first grown-up house-party in Eastmoor, and presented her with a glossy black face-powder compact inlaid with a marcasite stud – the first Christmas present he’d ever bought for a girl, which made his mother jealous as she guessed it meant the relationship was serious.

Carol’s parents Eric and Ivy were none too pleased to meet their daughter’s boyfriend, because when Mick turned up on the doorstep, they recognised him as the youth they’d last seen stumbling out of the Kettlethorpe Hotel worse for wear; and were initially unhappy about the relationship because of their understandable fear that if it went on in the usual way, Carol would be left a young widow. But Mick’s obvious devotion and mature attitude soon won them over, especially when he began handing Ivy a portion of his wages to save for their wedding, and working such long hours that one evening at his future in-laws, he fell asleep eating dinner!

Being deeply in love, the couple had decided to go for it together come what may, and under the circumstances, felt they had no time to lose.

Their whirlwind courtship was followed by the first marriage to take place in the new St George’s Chapel on Hendal Lane, on Saturday 19th October 1963, between the 19-year-old groom and his bride of 17. It raised some predictable eyebrows, much to mum-in-law Ivy’s annoyance, but this was no shotgun wedding although Mick loved children and was keen to experience fatherhood. A son, named Michael after his dad, duly appeared two months after their second wedding anniversary in 1965, followed by a baby brother, Anthony, and sister Paula, born roughly eighteen months apart. Mick was still having regular tests for Hodgkins until after Paula’s birth, by which time he’d already bucked the odds by surviving into his mid-twenties; and subsequently given the all-clear, remained living proof for another five decades that miracles can happen.

Mick’s priority was always to provide well for his wife and children, with holidays, and a car, and piles of gifts at Christmas – and he succeeded through sheer physical graft in a series of labouring jobs which made him barrel-chested and enormously strong for his size. He and Carol moved several times in their first five years of marriage to accommodate their growing family, until in 1971, the Harrises moved to 37 Hendal Lane, vacating their 3-bedroom semi at 47 Woodmoor Road to become the Doggetts’ home for the next 36 years. Outwardly jovial and confident, constant pressure to follow the money chewed Mick up inside and gave him painful gastric ulcers. A household of two adults and three growing children – not to mention Sukey the cat, Floyd the dog, and sundry other pets – was expensive to maintain, and money was always tight. A lasting result was that Mick, a frustrated farmer and always a keen fisherman and sea angler, passed on his knowledge and love of harvesting nature’s bounty by taking his children – and later grandchildren – out gathering wild fruits and nuts, and teaching his sons to fish and shoot small game, not for sport but to put food on the table. Britani recalls that as a child, she loved going chestnut picking with her grandad, and wearing his big leather gloves because her hands got so cold; while Michael inherited Mick’s passion for nature to such an extent that he chose gardening as a career, and chose the following poem to express his love for the father who always encouraged and inspired him:

The Countryman by Treeautumn25

Your eyes are closed with death’s dark veil,
Our tears are shed to no avail,
Your journey ends, your race is run,
No more the rain, no more the sun.

The fields and garden miss your touch,
The old cock pheasant you loved so much,
Birds lament your passing in their song,
They’ll miss a friend they knew so long.

The spring will see the snowdrops cry,
They’ll look around and wonder why,
Why the hands that helped them grow,
Are not still here to see their show.

Those of us left here to cope,
Will see these things as signs of hope,
In each of these we’ll see your face,
A sign of love, of hope and grace,

For the time has come to say farewell,
To one I loved but could not tell,
I’ll look for you in sun and cloud,
In rain and stars and thunder loud.

The world is poorer without your smile,
Your simple truth, your country style,
The country lad who came to be,
The countryman with spirit free.

Despite their tight budget, the young parents had enough energy to enjoy their children, and Mick threw himself into fatherhood as he did into everything else, reading stories, playing games, building snowmen, and taking his family on great seaside holidays. One year, given the choice between a holiday or a car, the children opted for wheels, so Mick bought a gold Vauxhall Viva 1100, which drove them many happy miles (although they all had to get out and walk while he drove to the top of steep hills). One of Michael’s vivid boyhood memories is heading to one of their favourite East Coast destinations past Towton, where his father would always tell of the terrible battle which made the river run red with blood – sowing the seed of an interest which eventually led him to join Towton Battlefield Society, where I met him in 2004. And in due course Mick became an equally devoted grandfather to Britani, Grace, Adam and Ellie; among Britani’s earliest memories are walks with her grandad around Newmillerdam and Sandal Castle, and riding on his back as he climbed up the steep motte.

Family finances improved in the mid-70s, when the children were all at school, Carol had a job at the nearby children’s home, and Mick began working in the power stations where he would remain until retirement. The environment was brutally hot and polluted, the labour hard and dangerous, and he was often away for entire summers, but the fat pay packets – three or four times an average labourer’s wage – were incentive enough to tough it out. Not to mention the crack with his mates, all hard men doing hard jobs they enlivened with outrageous practical jokes, like the time Graham put a mackerel in Claudy’s car heater box, and Claudy’s revenge of peeing in Graham’s bottle of electric pre-shave. There was also the notorious Blue Balls Incident when Mick spilt a tin of paint down himself at work, and by the time he got home it had soaked through his overalls and underwear and baked on, turning everything – I mean everything – underneath blue. Carol couldn’t stop laughing as she took the scissors to his private bristles, and Mick got cross in case her hand shook and she did him a mischief.

Better wages meant better holidays, and for some twenty years during his winter slack season, Mick and Carol indulged their mutual love of travel with month-long trips to Goa, where they were often joined for a fortnight by other family members or friends. Then when Mick took his well-deserved retirement aged 63, they set about their bucket list with cruises, European city breaks, and trips to countries like Egypt and Tunisia, where they always enjoyed seeing the sights and sampling local cuisine. At home, missing the routine of work, at 65 Mick took on an allotment garden, winning the prize for best newcomer in his first year, and for two consecutive years, third runner-up for best garden, achievements of which he was quietly and justly proud.

Sadly, age brought infirmity, putting a stop to holidays abroad and fishing trips with Michael, although we still enjoyed many memorable day trips or weekends in places like Pickering and Whitby, or their favourite Scarborough, where Mick and Carol went regularly right up until his last summer. Over the past couple of years, Mick’s increasingly dreadful memory and episodes of confusion must have been symptoms of the Alzheimer’s Disease only formally diagnosed a few months ago, which with typical stubborn pride he had fought and denied, and struggled to go on as normal – admirable traits, albeit ones which made him difficult to help. Despite his whole family falling ill with streaming colds or covid, which Carol caught straight after having pneumonia, he still managed to laugh in December – Britani will treasure her last memory of ‘taking him to the hospital to visit nan, and he put a carrier bag on his head when we got back in the car. It was like having the old grandad back who was silly and funny all the time, not grandad with Alzheimer’s.’ Mick also enjoyed his last family Christmas at Paula and Phil’s, with Gracey and David and Brit, watching his adored great-granddaughters Lilah and Ember play with their new toys. Disappointingly, we were too full of cold to do more than pop round with gifts and say a socially-distant ‘Merry Christmas’, though it cheered me to hear that Mick liked the soft navy scarf I’d knitted him, and which will go with him on his final journey since he only had chance to wear it that one time.

None of us realised that Mick had caught covid too until he lapsed into semi-consciousness one evening after a long and agitated day. Consequently, none of us got chance to say goodbye, or to express the love for a dying father James Blunt sings of so poignantly in this tear-jerker, chosen by Paula for her dad:

Music: Monsters, by James Blunt, 4 min 26

At first it seemed that the crisis had passed, and that Mick was recovering when he was in fact fading gently, with no severe symptoms or wish for a doctor, much less an ambulance, to be called. So in that sense, he had the kind of death we might all wish for: at home with a beloved spouse, without pain or fear; and though his sudden loss is shocking and sad, there’s comfort in knowing that Mick’s pains and confusion are over, and this hard-working, salt-of-the-earth Yorkshireman can now rest in peace – 60 years later than his boyhood doctors predicted, and having seen three generations of his family come into the world, to his great pride and joy.

Heartfelt tributes poured in on Facebook when the news broke, including this from Michael which says it all:

In memory and thanks for my wonderful Dad AKA Micky Doggitt to all his friends and workmates, whose last year and especially last few months had our hearts breaking as we watched his dad and grandad superpowers dwindle and fade and finally come to a sad end. His influence on me and my life has been immeasurable. I watched him graft at work which helped me to become a working man. He taught me not to worry about difficult jobs but to just sit and work it out carefully; taught me to love books, and never discouraged me in any new thing that I wanted to do, no matter how strange. I hope his sense of fun and humour has rubbed off as well as his love of family and loyalty towards friends. My love of nature and the outdoors comes from him taking me fishing at a very early age. If I’ve turned out to be half the man that he was, I count myself lucky.

Now the time has come to let Mick go, this strong, proud, plain-speaking man who wouldn’t suffer fools, but if he liked you, would be your friend forever; a man who loved and lived life to the full, and will be sorely missed by his family and friends – many of whom are here today, and I hope will come along to Sandal Rugby Club afterwards to raise a glass or three and eat some of his favourite snacks. We’re going to see Mick off with a song picked by Carol, which held special meaning for them both because it was played over and over at that long-ago Christmas party in Eastmoor; but before we hear it, I’ll close with this moving verse chosen by his granddaughter Gracey because it expresses her – and our – feelings so well:

He Only Takes the Best by Annica Sharma

God saw you getting tired and a cure was not to be,

So He put His arms around you, and whispered, ‘Come to Me.’

With tearful eyes we watched you, and saw you pass away,

Although we loved you dearly, we could not make you stay.

A golden heart stopped beating, hardworking hands at rest,

God broke our hearts to prove to us He only takes the best.

Goodbye, Dad.

Music: She Was Only 16, Sam Cooke


Beat the heat – check out my virtual walks from the comfort of your chair!

Sandal Castle, Wakefield: once ‘tidy’ and sterile, now left largely wild and transformed into an idyllic wildlife oasis abounding with new plants and all kinds of creatures

Wakefield Platinum Jubilee Time Capsule: A Sneak Preview of My Contribution!

In June, thanks to our chum Dr Keith Souter of the Friends of Sandal Castle, I was given a fantastic opportunity: to deposit some of my work in Wakefield’s Time Capsule, placed into the well at Sandal Castle to celebrate a unique national occasion, the Platinum Jubilee of HM Queen Elizabeth II. This was particularly exciting for me since the castle is our local monument, allegedly a favourite home of Richard, Duke of York, (father of my favourite king, Richard III), who died at the Battle of Wakefield in 1460 (subject of two of my non-fiction publications). I was duly proud to donate six books including the Wakefield histories, a ‘biographette’ (due to appear on my website home page), and the piece below in case you’re not around in fifty years and would like to read it now!

The Bishop of Wakefield, Tony Robinson, unveils the blue plaque to remind people there’s a Time Capsule down the nearby well!

Helen Cox, aka Helen Doggett, aka Rae Andrew/Rae Paxton

Hello! Do you read me? I hope so, because it’ll mean that despite the mess the world’s in as I write on 8th June 2022, humanity’s still hanging in there… and that even if the ice-caps have melted and you’re among Wakefield’s survivors living in a rebuilt Sandal Castle, standing proud above acres of water, you’ve managed to haul this time-capsule out of the well and take a peek back fifty years.

Unless I’ve been bitten by a vampire or stumbled on the key to longevity, (in which case I’ll be eleventy-one, like Bilbo Baggins minus the One Ring), I doubt very much I’ll be among you – which makes this an odd, uniquely poignant piece to write. Obviously, all writers would like to think that their words will live on after them, being read and enjoyed by generations to come; I now have the privilege of knowing that even if all my other works are long lost in obscurity, some people in 2072 will read (the covers at least!) of the little gift here enclosed with my love and best wishes. And while writers may keep a hopeful eye on posterity, we normally work in the here-and-now, for living contemporaries, rather than for a posthumous audience of people currently either young or as yet unborn… though my soul will be thrilled if that audience includes anyone – perhaps our great-nieces – who read and enjoyed Henry Wowler & the Mirror-Cat as a child, or came to any of my talks, guided walks, or Wars of the Roses events here with Towton Battlefield Society’s  Frei Compagnie, the re-enactment group Hubcap and I founded in 2007.

Above: Battle of Wakefield Commemorations back when today’s Castle Café used to be a Visitor Centre: me and Hubcap (far right and left) with friends, and me holding forth on a guided tour of Sandal Castle. If the present building still exists, the perspective of the castle on its window was painted by current Frei Co secretary and renowned fantasy/gaming artist Wayne Reynolds – just thought I’d bask in a little of his reflected glory!

If you are still with us, I hope you’re living in a cleaner, safer, wiser, kinder, saner world than I am today. One of the great frustrations for any historian is the truth of George Santayana’s statement, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ 561 years after Richard, Duke of York led his troops from this castle to slaughter at the Battle of Wakefield, nations and individuals are still ruled by the same power-hunger, greed, self-interest, and ruthless ambition that characterised politics in the 15th century (as they had for centuries before, probably ever since humankind gave up hunting and gathering in favour of accumulating land and possessions). Sadly, it seems that very few people remember, or learn anything from, even the most recent past. We’re still living through the biggest pandemic since World War I Spanish ‘flu, the one that locked the world down for months only two years ago, when everyone started saying, ‘Oh, isn’t it lovely and quiet, listen to the birds, see how beautiful the sky looks without con-trails, we must keep things this way etc etc’ – but of course now we’re back to the ‘new normal’ with people jetting off abroad willy-nilly, congregating in large numbers, driving ten miles to buy fast food or franchise coffee, (then chucking the rubbish out of the window as they speed home, backfires exploding), hardly anyone bothering with masks any more, even on public transport, just as if it had never happened – and still dying by the hundreds per day, vaccinations notwithstanding.

Is it still part of your lives, I wonder? Has it turned into one of those annoying things people take for granted, like the common cold, (‘I’m having a couple of days off work, got a touch of COVID’), or is it still fatal like ‘flu and pneumonia can be? And is the climate still in such crisis? I can’t report on today’s situation because I can’t bear to know; if I paid any attention to the horrifying statistics, the news about wild fires, floods, rainforests burned for palm oil etc, I probably wouldn’t still be around to write this, I’d have overdosed myself out long ago. Some things are improving though, especially since lockdown when people had more time to notice and get upset about plastic pollution and littering, for example. Helped by the Council’s brilliant StreetScene initiative, we now have a lovely social network of hundreds of volunteers all round Wakefield, who go out solo or in groups to litter-pick and clean up fly-tipping day in, day out, year-round. But I hope it no longer exists by 2072 because it’s no longer needed, because EVERYONE has finally grasped the basic social responsibilities of minimising waste and disposing of it properly. However, I do hope that junior members have picked up the torch and that Kettlethorpe Nature Action Group is still alive and knagging on nature’s behalf. Thanks to semi-retirement, we could make KNAG our contribution to lockdown life, a Facebook group founded by Hubcap in January 2021 to help local flora and fauna in any/every way – improving our woodland walks, cleaning up harmful litter, donating and fitting swift-boxes to provide homes for an endangered species luckily still flourishing here, helping neighbours create wildlife gardens, and generally trying to make this a cleaner, safer place for all residents, human and animal. I hope we succeeded in leaving you the legacy of a Kettlethorpe Community Nature Reserve to enjoy, as I hope the thousand or so trees we’ve planted to date around the estate (that’s Hubcap below, helping plant our bit of the White Rose Forest), have grown up into nice little woodlands, and that the two wildlife ponds the Council dug this year near Kettlethorpe Lake are still there, looking as if they have been forever, full of frogs, toads and newts. Maybe we even achieved our bigger dream of integrating our neck of the woods into a wider ecological landscape, a protected Calder Nature Corridor embracing Newmillerdam, Kettlethorpe, Pugneys, Seckar Wood and all our other wonderful local wild areas. That’d be nice.

To close with a few words of such wisdom as I’ve gleaned in my 61 years: life is the only thing that matters; the only thing any of us truly possess yet can only rely on keeping from one heartbeat to the next. So take good care of yourself and of your loved ones, of your pets, and the birds and bees in your garden, and of all living things, and above all, take good care of Mother Earth herself… then maybe there’ll still be people around to open YOUR time-capsule in 2122.

Love and light to you all from this little blast from the past,


Eulogy: Pete ‘Jona’ Jones

Hello, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name’s Helen. Sadly, many of you have already met me at least once in this capacity because we’ve lost so many mutual friends in recent years, all of them well-known and well-loved Doncaster characters: Penny Flintoff and her daughter Kate, Kate’s fiancé Pete MacDonald, and Shell Stubb’s partner Stevo Pearson. And now we’ve lost perhaps the greatest local character of all, the truly legendary Pete Jones – or Jona, as most of us knew him.

Jona and friends enjoying the sun (far right) at our last encounter in 2018

It was in Wetherspoons, on a sunny afternoon a few months after Kate’s death, and while he was still recuperating from major surgery, that Jona asked me if I’d do this for him when the time came. I was honoured to say yes, albeit naturally hoping that time lay much further ahead than today. We didn’t discuss details or even what music he might like; but I’m sure he’d approve of the songs chosen by Marc, Emma and Nicky, the first being This Woman’s Work by Kate Bush which we’ve just heard – and I can only hope he’s here now listening in spirit, and will be pleased with what I’m about to say.

My original draft started with a warning: ‘This service contains strong language, sexual swearwords, tasteless humour, and explicit drug references throughout.’ Then I thought it might get me arrested – might get some of you arrested, too – so I binned it in favour of this carefully sanitised version. No doubt you can fill in the blanks for yourselves.  

The Jona we all knew and loved was the quintessential good-time guy, a true party animal, sociable, hospitable and endlessly entertaining; a bit of a rogue and a ladies’ man, yet with the qualities and interests to be a man’s – and a children’s – man too; a gentle man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and about whom no-one has a bad word to say, as shown by the many similar tributes that poured in on Facebook: ‘one of the best blokes around,’ ‘diamond,’ ‘could’ve got away with murder if he’d fancied.’ What a way to bow out – it makes a fitting epitaph for a life which gave so much pleasure to so many people. Everyone in certain circles knew Jona, and everyone loved him because he was such good company and fun to be with. That was his surface persona; but even on a deeper level, what you saw was what you got. Jona was extremely Zen; a natural Buddhist, he lived in and for the moment – and mostly his moments were pretty damn good. He seemed to glide through life with calm acceptance, fully aware and involved in the issues he cared about, yet with no sign of the pointless angst, overthinking and emotional baggage so many of us carry. I can sum up my experience of him with a line from Leonard Cohen’s famous tribute to Janis Joplin: ‘You got away, I never once heard you say I need you, I don’t need you, and all of that jiving around.’  Perhaps it was this peaceful, chilled vibe which made Pete so magnetic, and drew people to him as much if not more than his social assets. If he had a dark side, I never saw a hint of it in the thirty years I knew him. The worst adjective I can think of to describe him is ‘messy’ – in every sense – and the worst criticism I can make is that it was easier to get Strongbow round at his place than milk for your tea (which I learnt to drink weak and black since I was invariably driving).

Despite our long acquaintance, I knew very little about Jona personally, or about his life before he settled in Doncaster. I gather from Nicky that this isn’t unusual among his friends and associates, so parts of this story may be as much of a revelation to you as they were to me.

Peter Howard Jones was born in Birkenhead in 1950, the only son of Beryl and Reginald Jones, and brother to Debbie and Rosemary. An extremely talented draughtsman, as a young man Jona ran his own company, Jolly Design Ltd. While married to Trudy, he became a loving father to Marc; then to Emma, the daughter of his second marriage to the late Heather, and to Heather’s daughter Penny; and later an equally loving and beloved stepfather to Nicky, entering her life as her mum’s new partner when she was only six weeks old. He also had the joy of seeing another generation of his family born, and would be a proud, doting grandfather to Emma’s three children Jack, Hattie, and Dara, and to Nicky’s daughter Kendall.

Though Jona had many talents and virtues, self-discipline wasn’t among them. In Emma’s words, ‘My dad was a keen fisherman and a generally laid-back guy. He had a lust for life and enjoyed himself to the full; my earliest memories are of stepping over sleeping bodies after one of his drinking marathons. Dad and one of his oldest, closest friends, Johnny Carter, went off to Ireland for a time to run a family pub Johnny had inherited. Unfortunately they couldn’t get a licence, but apparently a good time was had by all as they fished all day and partied all night – until the booze ran out.’

That seems like an apt point to break for this song: Fisherman’s Blues by the Water Boys

I first met Jona around 1990 in The Leopard – where else? – while I was getting to know my friend Penny’s daughter Kate. Of course, I liked him immediately – who didn’t? – and we had a lot in common. A fellow nature-lover, he belonged to the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust; was soppy about cats and gave them cool names (Reggie and Ronnie, Ping and Pong); and a keen gardener, he shared my fondness for houseplants, which he was highly skilled at cultivating. Back in those days he looked very much as Marc does now, so it was quite freaky – in the nicest possible way – to Facetime with Marc while preparing for this service, and reminded me so vividly of a scene from our early acquaintance that I even recall how we were dressed: Jona in a white shirt and jeans, and me in Gothy black. We bumped into each other at Donny station one summer Saturday night and travelled to Sheffield together; he and a petite blonde lady were on their way to a party, and I was with a group heading for an all-nighter at the Leadmill – but I enjoyed their company on the journey so much I wished I’d given raving a miss and accepted the invitation to party along with them instead.

Not long afterwards, Jona left his town centre flat, where his good nature and hospitality were sometimes abused by folk rolling in from the pub and creating hassle, and moved to 74 Furnival Road in Balby, well out of their way. I loved going round there. I can still picture – and smell – it quite clearly: the red front door, the massive mess, the clothing-strewn bathroom, Reggie Catt snoozing somewhere or pottering about; sitting in the living room with the gas fire blasting and Jeremy Clarkson burbling in the background if it was cold, or outside in the sun if it wasn’t, sometimes alone and sometimes in company. Either way, the memories are golden – I can’t recall a single time which wasn’t fun. As you know, Pete was a great raconteur and frequently had me in stitches. One story that sticks in the mind, so to speak, concerned a bucket of slugs he and some friends had collected in the process of blitzing a garden. Much debate ensued on how best to humanely dispose of said critters. Then someone had a bright idea: tip them into a bin-bag and squash them en masse. The knotted bag was duly jumped on with full force – whereupon it burst, splattering the onlookers with a mixture of slime and pulverised slugs. I almost laughed myself sick, then countered with the tale of how my husband Mick once accidentally stank the neighbourhood out with baked cat-shit. (Ask me later if you really want to know).

Kate and I often met up at Furnival Road before, during and after her romance with Jona, and I always felt sorry that the vegan cookbook they’d been working on together never came to fruition. After one typically hilarious afternoon, we sat in my car meanly laughing at some poor novice driver struggling to make a thirty-three-point turn between the tightly parked rows before it occurred to either of us that any half-decent person would get out and help – by which point it was embarrassingly too late, so we stayed put and enjoyed the show until the poor lass finally managed to drive off. On odd occasions, the three of us also met up at Kate’s, usually when we were trying to tame her wildly overgrown garden. On many more occasions we passed at the gate, or missed each other by minutes, since we lived our lives from opposite ends: I’m more likely to rise at midnight than midday then crash out straight after tea, so I’d usually finished my stint and was heading home by the time Jona arrived. I confess I was very alarmed when a chainsaw was acquired, (minus the requisite PPE, of course), to speed up the work. I tried not to imagine Kate with her weak ankles and the pair of them stoked up on Strongbow, stumbling through that jungle wielding a potentially lethal power tool, and daily expected to see ‘Armthorpe Accidental Chainsaw Massacre’ cropping up on Look North.

As well as playing hard, Jona could and did work hard when the occasion demanded. In the late Nineties and Noughties he set up as a freelance IT consultant – I hired him a couple of times to sort out computer problems for me – and often spent much of the summer doing catering or bar work on the festival circuit. It seemed like an idyllic existence in many respects, if not without its downside – like the frightening incident when some bad guys kicked in the front door and robbed him. As time passed we saw less of each other, particularly after I moved from Doncaster to Wakefield, but I well recall his 60th birthday and the lovely evening Mick and I spent with Kate and James, celebrating it at The Leopard; and that it was from Kate I first learned of Jona’s cancer, and his operation in late 2017 to remove a kidney tumour.

Again, this is typical. Jona never publicised his problems, sought sympathy or bemoaned his fate; he just stoically dealt with what he had to. There was no secrecy or embarrassment involved; when I saw him in Spoons, he freely described his unusual kidney, the apparent success of his operation, and his slow road to recovery, with characteristic good humour and understatement of the pain and discomfort he must have endured. As Emma says, ‘Jona battled his illness like a trooper – a lot of people never even knew he was sick.’

This natural discretion was compounded by Covid and the 2020 lockdowns, with Jona’s age and health placing him in the most vulnerable category, and restricting him to a small social bubble at precisely the time he would most want to be with his family and friends. One great blessing is that he was able to go on living at home with the support of his good friend Dave ‘Spike’ Mahoney, who Emma particularly wishes to thank for caring for her dad when she couldn’t, due to work and family commitments. Sadly though, Pete was unable to say many things he might otherwise have said to many of you face to face – so on his behalf I’ll try and say them through this verse: Farewell, My Friends.

It was beautiful as long as it lasted, the journey of my life. I have no regrets whatsoever, save the pain I’ll leave behind – those dear hearts who love and care, and the heavy-with-sleep, ever-moist eyes, the smile in spite of a lump in the throat and the strings pulling at the heart and soul,
The strong arms that held me up when my own strength let me down. Each morsel that I was fed was full of love.
At every turning of my life I came across good friends, friends who stood by me, even when the time raced me by.
Farewell, farewell my friends, I smile and bid you goodbye.
No, shed no tears, for I need them not, All I need is your smile. If you feel sad, do think of me, for that’s what I’ll like – when you live in the hearts of those you love, remember then… you never die.

I’ll be eternally grateful that I got to see Jona for what proved to be the last time, though mercifully neither of us knew it, on a blisteringly hot day in June 2018. Even though the occasion was sad – a small planting party in our orchard for some of Kate’s ashes – it’s another golden memory I treasure. Roy made music while we made merry in the usual way – although Jona was quieter than usual, which is hardly surprising, and spent much of the time crashed out in the sun. We planted Kate at the foot of two cider apple trees called Katy and Sops in Wine, watered in with copious libations of Strongbow while Mick quietly freaked out in case the alcohol killed these precious saplings we’d painstakingly nurtured though the drought. He needn’t have worried. They’ve turned into two of our best croppers, and we make their fruit into organic cider and this sublime apple brandy – a nice bit of indirect cannibalism I suspect would amuse vegan Kate enormously. Here’s to you both. Another blessing is the family’s golden memory of their last holiday together in Turkey, where Jona enjoyed the beauty of the place, being peacefully at one with nature and spending time with his grandchildren.

When the end came, Jona’s decline was so sudden and steep it took everyone by surprise. Even though I was aware of his condition, like many of you, I didn’t know how critical it had become, or that any chance of visiting had passed. This does mean I can remember him as he’d like to be remembered, full of life and fun. Sadly, it also means I never got to tell him how dearly fond I’d always been of him, and how much his friendship meant to me. Like most of you here today, I never got chance to say goodbye.

So let’s tell him now. Let’s reach out to Jona with our hearts and minds and say to him all those last words; and let’s reach out to each other, united in the sorrow of loss but also in the joy of having known and shared our lives with this uniquely special man. Let’s take a few quiet moments to fill this whole space with our love and memories of laughter, to lift the roof off and send his spirit soaring on a champagne supernova…


Pete Jones, if the power of love in this room could restore you to life, you’d live forever. But the time’s come to bid farewell to your physical presence, and as they might say on Top Gear: The vehicle has become unroadworthy – which, considering the joyride it’s had for seventy-one years, is perhaps no surprise. The bodywork’s decaying, the filters have packed in, and now the engine’s totally failed. The driver has duly abandoned it in long-stay parking where he says you’re welcome to torch it – he’s elected to fly home instead.


It is a great comfort to know that Jona died as he lived: peacefully, surrounded by his nearest and dearest, still able to enjoy a can of lager and a smoke, and give a thumbs-up, practically till his last hour. You know how he’d like you to celebrate his life, so when we leave here, get yourselves down to The Leopard; and since he didn’t want you to be any sadder than you can help, I’ll close with this thought:

When I die, my atoms will come undone;

I’ll be space dust once again.

The wind will carry me; scatter me everywhere, like dandelions in Springtime

I’ll visit worlds and alien moons; it will be so damn poetic.

Until I land on your sandwich.

Oasis: Champagne Supernova

Dying to Lose Weight? Try Eating for Life!

Stop dieting. If you’re reading this, you probably know to your cost that they don’t work. A whole mega-bucks global industry relies on it: you keep failing, you keep forking out for more over-priced, over-packaged pseudo-foods and latest wonder weight-loss fads – products at best unnecessary, and at worst actively harmful, to human and planetary health. The good news? You don’t need them. You can achieve and maintain the right weight naturally, cheaply, and above all enjoyably by Eating for Life, the holistic solution to weight control problems. I’ve lost 20 lb this way and am nearing my target weight while eating whatever I want, in moderation (1). The bad news? It’s no quick fix. It requires permanent changes in your mindset and eating habits, from minor tweaks if your lifestyle is already wholesome and active but over-indulgent, to a full overhaul for sedentary junk junkies. But trust me, it’s worth it – you’ll live, feel and function better in every way. So answer the following questions honestly. Do you ever:

  1. Eat just because something’s there, even if you’re full/don’t particularly like it?
  2. Obsess about the last chocolate/biscuit/slice of cake/pizza until you finally give in and eat it?
  3. Keep a secret stash of goodies for your personal consumption?
  4. Conceal/lie about what/how much you’ve eaten (eg stuffing wrappers to the bottom of the bin)?
  5. Pile your plate high and finish everything, no matter how full you feel?
  6. Beat yourself up about what/how much you’ve eaten?
  7. Overindulge to the max on all social and festive occasions?
  8. Tend to binge on certain foods?
  9. Think about food constantly because you feel constantly hungry?
  10. Experience mood swings, depression, lethargy, bloating, constipation, indigestion/ heartburn, or poor concentration?

A ‘Yes’ to any question from 1 – 8 means you have a dysfunctional, addictive relationship with food. It’s not your fault, it’s how you’ve learned to comfort or reward yourself – but like any dependence, you do need to conquer it so that you only eat when you’re hungry, know when to stop, then forget about food till you feel hungry again. That’s the goal: to enjoy normal, healthy eating habits and being able to live at your optimal weight without dieting (2). A ‘Yes’ to 9 and/or 10 means you eat/drink too much of the wrong stuff, and not enough of the right. It’s possible to be simultaneously overweight and malnourished/dehydrated due to over-consumption of nutrient-deficient, ultra-processed, high-fat, artificially flavoured junk food/confectionery, intensively farmed animal products, and additive-laden soft drinks. These horrible products mess up your blood chemistry but don’t nourish or sustain, so you crave more, get fatter, feel worse, crave more to cheer yourself up and so on (3). Furthermore, they increase your risk of developing life-threatening conditions including bowel cancer, heart disease and diabetes. Ideally, no-one should eat sugary, salty, fatty junk because it’s so damaging in so many ways, and reducing your intake is essential if you seriously want to lose weight and improve your health at the same time.

Eating for Life replaces junk with wholesome alternatives, making you feel so good you won’t miss the calorie-laden bad stuff. It gives you control; you can take baby steps so you don’t feel deprived, (if you can’t give it up, cut it back), or big leaps to get quick results. It teaches you to identify your true needs and feed them appropriately, and helps your appetite self-regulate so that by simply monitoring and adjusting your intake/output, you can maintain either weight loss or stability. Best of all, the more you stick to it, the easier it gets. So give it a try – you’ve nothing to lose but your fat!

1. Work Out What. Break the barriers of ignorance/denial.You need to know exactly what you consume, so start an Eating for Life diary and keep it up for as long as/whenever you need it. Record your initial weight and measurements so that you can keep track of progress, then everything you eat/drink during the day. Calculate how many calories it contains. You may be horrified. The average adult needs 2000 – 2500 per day. A pound of fat contains c. 3500. Therefore if input exceeds output by 350 calories per day – equivalent to a single Mars Bar or family bag of Doritos, or a half-dozen milk-and-two-sugars – in ten days you’ll put on a pound. Scary, eh? That’s why you gain, or can’t lose, weight even when you think you eat frugally – it takes very little to tip the balance. But you’ll see straight away what/where you can cut back painlessly: skimmed or semi-skimmed instead of whole, one instead of two, a spoonful less, a smaller slice, no seconds. Your stomach will shrink, you’ll need less food to satisfy it, and weight loss will follow naturally.

2. Work Out Why. Knowing why you eat is equally crucial, so note how you feel at the time: bored, lonely, restless, unhappy, ravenous, peckish, stuffed but can’t stop? It may be easy to spot when you’re hungry for something – company, interests, fulfilling occupation – other than food. It may be painfully hard. Disordered eating often stems from trauma (4) as you’ll know if you ever watch programmes like My 600-lb Life; and unless underlying emotional issues are resolved, not even radical gastrectomy can prevent people from regaining lost weight. The only cure is to face the pain, heal from it, release food as a coping mechanism, and move on to a happier, healthier future. So identify and tackle the cause of your eating behaviour, no matter how hard it seems. Believe me, it’s worth it. You’re worth it.

I revisited this process in January 2021, after gaining 12 lb to hit my lifetime maximum weight (again), which I hate because it’s uncomfortable and exhausting. Knowing it was down to ignoring the scales for six weeks of unrestrained festive gorging on a reduced winter workload, I was determined to lose what I’d gained plus another 14 lb to take me back to the weight I like best (last seen in 2005).I duly slashed my daily intake and upped my exercise levels. By reducing portions so I never felt too full, spritzing an inch of wine into a half pint, cutting caffeine and snacks, and drinking more water, in the first few days I lost three pounds of bloat and thereafter, up to a half-pound of fat a week. Six months later I’d shed half a stone – where I stuck, despite being back into full summer work mode of two – five hours moderately strenuous gardening a day. I regained muscle without regaining pounds, which improved my BMI, but the scales remained stubbornly pegged. Reviewing my daily intake showed I was maintaining this stable weight on a diet including desserts, chocolate, wine, and a weekly pork pie – so to lose more I clearly had to cut back again, helped by a metabolic kick-start.

Cleanse and Re-boot. Food-Combining, pioneered by Louise Hay, is one diet I do recommend for pleasure and rapid results – I typically lose several pounds just by switching to it for a couple of weeks. Food Combining is based on fresh fruit and veg eaten with either protein or carbohydrate but not the latter together – for instance, lubricating cereal with fruit juice instead of milk, and leaving either the bread or the bacon out of a BLT (5).

To fully de-tox, give up all caffeine, alcohol, salt, sugar, and refined carbohydrate for at least 48 hours. Breakfast on fresh fruit salad and plain fat-free yoghurt (c. 250 calories), then a mid-morning banana, (c. 100 calories), mixed superfood salad with fat-free cottage cheese. citrus fruit and an apple for lunch, (c. 350 calories), fresh veg soup and fruit salad for dinner (c. 350 calories), and unsalted nuts/seeds/dried fruit (c. 100 calories a handful) or carrot/celery sticks (negligible calories) if you need a bite in between (6). Calories take care of themselves; raw, baked, steamed, stir-fried or stewed fresh produce naturally contains so few you can fill your boots and still stay within a 1200 – 1500 calorie/day weight-loss range. It’s also highly nutritious, bulky and full of fibre so you feel satisfied, takes a long time to break down so your blood sugar, energy levels and attendant moods don’t peak and trough, then scours your digestive tract clean as it passes through – a great all-round health boost. A de-tox also reduces water retention and bloat, eases pre-menstrual symptoms, and helps to identify food allergies; for instance, if you’re prone to indigestion and notice significant improvements on giving up wheat-based carbs, (bread, cereals, pasta, biscuits, cakes, pastry etc), you may be gluten-sensitive and should switch permanently to gluten-free alternatives to prevent symptoms recurring.

I de-toxed until the scales shifted by three pounds, then returned to pared-down normality. Changing to an open sandwich for breakfast and lunch saved two slices of German rye bread/200 – 300 calories per day, sustained me equally well, and cured the indigestion I often suffered at work due to repeated bending on an over-filled stomach. I cut dinner portions by roughly a third, ate slowly, and always left room for dessert. Fate then stepped in with The Bathroom Conversion From Hell, which for kept me so busy, distracted and stressed I either forgot to eat (imagine!) or was so pumped with adrenalin and rage I simply couldn’t (7). Four more pounds melted away, and lo! I’d lost as much in six weeks as I had in the previous six months, 14 lb altogether. The moral of that is:

Up Your Activity Levels. I don’t advocate employing a rogue business to jack up your pulse-rate, but being stuck at a stubborn weight is the time to take up a new hobby or sport to stop you slumping in front of daytime TV (burns one calorie/minute, same as sleeping) with a packet of HobNobs (c. 1400 calories/pack for plain, c. 2000 for chocolate). Make and sustain the effort. Hoovering and mowing the lawn burn five – ten calories/minute. Walk briskly or cycle instead of driving. Use the stairs not the lift. Wash the dishes by hand and dance while you dry them. Do chairobics or floor exercises while watching TV. Do anything you enjoy to up your heartbeat, tone your muscles and help you get and stay in shape.

Kick Your Addictions. Sugar is as addictive as heroin and, in its way, equally harmful. We joke about having a sweet tooth, or being ‘chocoholic’, but sugar addiction really isn’t funny, and its consequences loom large all around in the shape of our global obesity pandemic and related health problems.

Sweet or savoury, whatever your poison the cure is to starve addiction out, not encourage it. So let your palate recover from ‘tongue-blindness’. Shun diet products and meal replacements. Adverts calling them ‘delicious,’ ‘satisfying,’ and ‘nutritious’ are LIES – they’re at best tolerable and at worst downright nasty. (They do work if you stick to them, as any medically ill-advised, ultra-low-cal crash diet will work in the short-term – but you’ll be miserably hungry, learn nothing about healthy eating, and regain losses PDQ when you return to your regular habits). Typical ingredients include fructose, lactose, glucose, corn syrup, (all sugars), artificial sweeteners, wheat flour, palm fat/oil, emulsifiers, anti-caking agents, flavourings, preservatives, colourings etc, plastic-packed and unhealthy as it comes. Powdery milk shakes and cardboard cookies only fill you for five minutes, keep you stuck firmly in sugar dependence, and in no way replace a proper meal. For the same 150 calories as a glass of vile Cambridge Diet you could have a lovely filling jacket potato with low-fat sour cream and a big green salad tossed in lemon juice; instead of a processed 100 calorie cereal/cake bar, (or even a tasty virtuous cold-pressed Nakd bar), you could eat two apples, a banana, or a handful of dried fruit and nuts – real foods to nourish and satisfy, rather than unpalatable facsimiles of compulsive trigger foods which reinforce your addictive behaviour instead of teaching you to eat normally… and no plastic packaging!

So kick the diet, mass confectionery, processed and fast-food industries where it hurts – in the pocket. The less of their products you eat, the less you crave; the more you eat natural wholefoods, the better they taste, and the more former favourites revolt. Luxury biscuits, ice-cream bars, Nutella, and fondant fancies no longer remotely tempt me because they’re either too sweet, too greasy with palm-oil, too plastic-packaged, or all three. Substitute well-diluted fresh fruit juice for soft drinks, and wean yourself off sugar or artificial sweeteners in coffee and tea. Beverages taste better without. (If you disagree, you’re probably addicted to the sugar/hazelnut syrup/chocolate sprinkles or whatever as much as caffeine or the drink itself). You can taste them, for one thing. For another, ditching the strong flavours and empty calories lets you appreciate the subtlety of caffeine-free herbal infusions, which often carry health benefits in addition to helping you reduce your caffeine intake: turmeric and ginger treat inflammations and infections, lemon & ginger soothes colds and sore throats, peppermint aids digestion, sage relieves menstrual and menopause symptoms, chamomile helps you relax, and dandelion or nettle purify the blood and make you pee, reducing fluid retention and bloat. Acquiring a taste for unsweetened drinks doesn’t take long, and you never miss sugar; I gave up my teaspoon per cup forty years ago, saving a good 150 calories every day since, and now can’t abide the stuff in any drink but cocoa.

With chocolate, go for quality not quantity. The fewer the ingredients, the better. Pure plain contains only 50 – 95% cocoa solids, cocoa butter, sugar, and usually soya lecithin emulsifier and vanilla extract. True chocoholics find its aromatic bitterness heavenly; if you don’t, you’re more a sugar junkie than a real chocolate lover. Pure milk chocolate additionally contains milk fat/solids, and at least 30% cocoa solids. Good chocolate costs more than the adulterated, sickly sweet, low cocoa crap used in mass confectionery, but drop the daily KitKat break and you can afford a weekly organic Fair Trade treat in recyclable packaging from your local Co-op. ‘Chocolate flavour’ coating, as used on diet bars, is basically solid, sweetened vegetable/palm fat with a little cheap cocoa, and should be avoided at all costs.

Also be aware of less obvious sugars in products like cook-in sauces, ketchup, pickles and relishes, salad dressings, sandwich spreads etc, and limit your intake especially while you’re in an active weight-loss phase. The reward? Once you’ve firmly established Eating for Life you can indulge, in moderation, in whatever you fancy.

Rehydrate. Wash toxins out of your system with at least two pints of water a day, (fresh tap water, not the stale micro-plastic soup you buy in bottles). Like it or not, water’s essential for health and effective weight control. Lack of it can lead to anything from blood clots to urine infections, and it’s easy to become chronically dehydrated if you only drink pop and caffeinated beverages which make you excrete more than you consume. It’s also easy to mistake thirst for hunger, so reach for a glass of water before you reach for a snack, sip water before/during meals to aid digestion, and switch to herbal or de-caf tea and coffee where you can. Can’t stand the taste of tap water? Leave a jug in the fridge to off-gas overnight (even our cat will drink it when the fluoride wears off). Add a wedge of lemon or sprig of mint (both natural appetite suppressants). Or toss in blueberries, strawberries, orange slices, whatever fresh fruit you like to add flavour and vitamin C. Stir in a pinch of salt, and hey presto! Smart water. Bottom line is, your body needs water to function properly, so drink more of it. You’ll feel better, I promise.

Go Greener. Eating for Life benefits your health, your own and the country’s economy, and Mother Earth all at once. The giant corporations which churn out products cynically designed and marketed to foster cravings and addiction don’t care about human health, animal welfare, or climate change; they only care about profits. Consider palm-oil. Once used mainly for cosmetics and toiletries, it’s now forced on unwitting consumers in everything from mass-produced bread, baked goods and cereals to gravy granules, margarine, chocolate, and boiled sweets (read the labels) because it’s cheap. Stuff the rainforests razed for palm plantations, or the long-term effects this fat might have on bodies which never evolved to metabolise it, let alone in large daily amounts. Consider the unbelievably cruel intensive farming methods required by the processed/fast-food industries to pump out their mechanically recovered burgers, sausages, and chicken nuggets for such temptingly low prices. With meat as with chocolate, cheap means bad, and bad for you, derived from animals kept in atrocious conditions, artificially fed and pumped full of hormones – so choose humanely-reared free range and/or organic meat products instead, they’re tastier, more nutritious and contain no nasty chemicals. Consider the gigantic global litter/waste disposal problem these companies create with their foam and plastic shells, plastic cutlery, straws, cup lids, condiment sachets etc, thanks to the obnoxious behaviour of too many ‘tosser’ customers. Consider the exploitation/forced eviction of indigenous peoples, the child slave labourers used by Nestle and Lindt to feed our greed for chocolate, the appropriation of community pure water sources (Nestle again) to feed our pointless appetite for bottled water. Learning more about what food contains, how it’s produced, and how the companies responsible conduct themselves in the world, is the best aversion therapy I can think of. I now refuse to buy a whole list of products/to put a single penny into the coffers of fat-cat fast-food and pretentious coffee franchises, and I’d rather starve than eat deep-fried battery chicken portions, or sausages made from cage-reared pig.

These days it’s more vital than ever to reduce, re-use and recycle; to support local farmers, growers and small/independent businesses, grow and cook more of our own, plan weekly menus and shop carefully to avoid food waste and unnecessary plastic. You’ll be amazed at how it slashes your shopping bills and household waste output so you can easily afford high-end organic products. (8). Pound for pound, fresh loose produce is the cheapest, healthiest food available. Cooking, preserving, and sharing it with loved ones are rewarding activites for any age, and if children learn to prefer wholesome, home-made food and tap water to junk and blue pop, they’re more likely to grow up at their optimal weight/state of health, and less likely to be ‘picky’ or develop an eating disorder (9). You don’t have to sacrifice favourites: pop your own corn, dry-roast your own nuts, bake your own low-fat, low-salt potato/root veg crisps – you can find instructions to make anything from apple cake to zabaglione cheaper, fresher, and tastier than the bought versions. My own cakes, biscuits and desserts are an essential part of our manual labourers’ diet as well as a joy to eat, packed with vitamins, minerals and fibre from fruit, nuts, seeds and oat-bran, and slow-release calories from wholegrain flours, butter, eggs, and milk to sustain us through our working day. They’re so filling you’re hard pushed to eat more than one – plus the effort involved in making them is another great disincentive to pogging the whole batch at once.

Eating for Life: the Holistic Way Forward All these elements combine into an effective, self-reinforcing strategy for weight loss and long-term control which helps you save money and save the Earth at the same time. Find the key to your eating behaviour and the rest naturally falls into place; and the more you practice, the easier it becomes until it’s second nature. Ongoing moderation is essential, as are twice-weekly weight checks and prompt response to small gains – it’s easy enough to trim back the odd pound or two, but ignore the scales until you’ve put on half a stone, and you have a much weightier problem.

Since committing to Eating for Life, I’ve gently descended to a weight I haven’t seen for 15 years. I feel very fit and happy with my body now, though still plan to lose a few more ‘insurance’ pounds before stabilising at my chosen weight. I don’t plan to spend six months every year for the rest of my life trying to shed what I gain over Christmas – the game’s not worth the advent candle. Instead I’m looking forward to going meat-and-sweet-free until Solstice, making rather than buying most of our festive fare and gifts, and limiting the feast season to 21st December – New Year’s Day.  It’s a marvellously empowering prospect; for the first time ever, I feel like a responsible adult taking proper care of myself – paying mindful attention to my diet/activity levels, adjusting as required, and confident that in future I can stay within plus or minus two pounds of my desired weight.

As with any diet or health plan, Eating for Life does require some self-discipline and perseverance, especially in the early stages – but If a self-indulgent old hedonist like me can do it, so can you! Good luck, and good health.


  1. Distilled from decades of battling and beating my eating disorders through psychotherapy, self-help, and dozens of failed diets until I read Louise Hay’s How To Heal Your Life (a holistic, dietary approach to treating ailments including disordered eating).
  2. When Food is Love by Geneen Roth traces the root of her compulsive eating disorder and long journey to recovery.
  3. Potatoes Not Prozac by Kathleen Desmaisons gives a clear explanation of the relationship between blood chemistry and mood, and how to alleviate depression by making simple changes to your diet.
  4. In my case, compulsive comfort-eating after the death of my adored grandfather turned me from an average weight-for-height three-year-old into an obese sugar-addict by junior school, periodically bulimic from my teens to late thirties, and an overweight yo-yo dieter until recently.
  5. A protein dinner might be Greek salad and feta cheese, tofu or lean meat with stir-fry veg (no rice or potatoes), and stewed apples with yoghurt; a carbohydrate version might be guacamole tortilla, vegetable chili with rice, and summer pudding without cream or custard – delicious, sustaining food that sits lightly in the stomach and fills you with wellbeing.
  6. My favourite fruit salad: fresh pineapple and melon chunks, seedless grapes, a large banana, a chopped apple, a tin each of grapefruit salad and mandarin segments in juice, and a handful each of dried cranberries and dried apricots. And veg soup: a large onion, garlic, two large leeks, two large carrots, a head of celery, half a white cabbage, fresh herbs and seasonings to taste. Chop and fry in a little olive oil, simmer in vegetable stock until tender, then whizz through a blender – delicious hot or cold.
  7. Look up Steve Brooks on to find out why – and I got off lightly compared to those people!
  8. See my blog Plastic Pollution: how one household can make a difference
  9. I once saw a junior school class tuck into a medieval banquet including salads, whole roast pigeon and baked trout, (one lad even ate the eyes and pronounced them good – more than I could’ve done!), because they’d researched the menu, prepared/helped cook the dishes, and couldn’t wait to find out how it all tasted.

Helmick 14th Anniversary Adventure!

For near enough the past decade, we’ve celebrated our wedding anniversary by going off for a couple of days walking/exploring interesting places, with dinner, bed and breakfast at a posh hotel in between, and 2021 was no exception. Blessed by the weather, we got off to a fine start with a visit to Kirkham Priory, (off the A64 between York and Malton) – we’d often passed the sign for it but never visited.

Hubcap orientates himself, with eastern chapel wall to left, and west range/cloister to right in background

The hillside location overlooking the River Derwent is spectacular, as are the standing fragments of the gatehouse and priory church; the rest, thanks to Henry VIII and centuries of stone-robbing, is reduced to foundations.

Gatehouse adorned with Roos family heraldry, St George & the Dragon to left of arch, and David & Goliath on right

However, the English Heritage interpretation boards and the useful guidebook on sale in the shop give a good idea of how magnificent this wealthy Augustinian house must have been in its heyday, equalling the better-known Cistercian foundations like nearby Rievaulx Abbey. We spent a good hour and a half hoofing round the terraces looking at everything – I was particularly struck by the remains of the superb 13th century arched laver in the cloister, where the monks washed their hands before entering the refectory – and wondering how many of these ruined religious houses would’ve survived until today had it not been for the Reformation.

After that we were gasping for a drink; and since only basic refreshments are available on site, we set off to the pub signposted as 300 yards up the road – ‘up’ being the operative word! But it was worth the stiff pull to enjoy a cold glass in the beer garden of The Old Stone Trough, which was doing a brisk Sunday lunchtime trade; we’d have eaten there ourselves if we hadn’t come prepared with a picnic in case there were no suitable eateries open.

We were well ready for that by the time we’d walked back down to the Priory carpark, and ate while watching hikers pass by on the riverbanks and a couple of intrepid ladies swimming up and down a short stretch. Being in the vicinity with time to kill before we could check in to our hotel, we then went on to another English Heritage site Hubcap had never seen, and I’d not revisited since a student archaeology field trip I went on in 1981: Wharram Percy near Wetwang, one of the largest, best preserved deserted medieval villages (DMVs) in Europe and, thanks to decades of intensive archaeological investigation, probably the best-known. Once a thriving Saxon settlement, Wharram was awarded to the Percy family by William the Conqueror, and at its height in the 14th century boasted a manor house, a water mill, a green with a stone church, houses and outbuildings for some 40 peasant families, and a population of c. 200. Wharram Percy’s later fortunes fluctuated dramatically as a result of raids by the Scots, the Black Death, voluntary departure, and ultimately forced evictions and the destruction of homes in around 1500, as part of the change from arable to sheep farming driven by the rising profits to be made from the English wool trade.

Free to visit and open year-round, Wharram Percy is no site for the unfit or those expecting tea-rooms, toilets and trinkets – there are no facilities, and no structures except for the ruined church and an experimental 19th century farm building used as a headquarters for the excavation teams, neither of which are currently accessible to the public. The DMV lies some three-quarters of a mile from the carpark down a rough track and hollow-way, and is itself very rugged with some steep gradients which we puffed up and down, looking for vantage points where we could make sense of the grassed-over building platforms, ditches and trackways. If we’d done some research beforehand and thought to bring a site plan, we could easily have spent a full day there; aside from the archaeology, Wharram Percy is a perfectly preserved fragment of ancient landscape, and Hubcap was captivated by its associated rare ecology – another addition to our growing list of places to re-visit.

The downside was coming back, uphill all the way – in the rain. At least the wind was behind us, albeit driving the water dripping off my coat into the backs of my legs; luckily I had some dry trousers to change into when we got back to the car!

By then it was time for the short drive to Malton, where we’d been looking forward to staying at the wonderfully picturesque Old Lodge Hotel, former gatehouse to the Norman castle built on the site of the Roman auxiliary fort Derventio Brigantum.

After a drink on the terrace and a turn round the grounds, we put away an excellent two-course Sunday dinner; Hubcap chose ham hock terrine followed by baked salmon, while I went for the vegetarian option of baked Brie wedges and a walnut and red wine nut roast; the portions didn’t look massive but proved to be so filling we couldn’t finish all the veg, and neither of us had room for dessert.

We rounded things off with a drink in the cosy oak-panelled bar, then went up to our room – where, as usual, all our problems began. For a treat, Hubcap had upgraded us from the Sunday special offer room to a much larger one with an almost equally huge bathroom, whereas we’d probably have been better off stuck away in a little garret at the back. Instead, our luxurious billet was at the front, facing the road, near the main entrance and directly above the kitchen.

On the middle floor – bedroom on right, bathroom on left, drain and extractor fan in between!

For most people, this wouldn’t matter. For us, it was a disaster. We’re so used to our Memoryfoam mattress in a chilly, pitch-dark, silent room that we struggle to sleep in other surroundings, however palatial. Hotels are almost always far too hot for us, so our first actions were, as usual, to turn off the radiators, fling the windows wide where we could, and swap the inevitable Arctic-rated duvet for our own wafer-thin summer weight, (yes, we really are sad enough to take our own bedding to 4-star hotels). Of course, open windows mean noise – in this case, the hum of a kitchen extractor fan until late, accompanied by the all-night drip-drip of water from some condenser unit trickling into a drain directly below, and torturing Hubcap, who couldn’t wear his ear-plugs for long due to an inner-ear infection. I could wear mine, not that it made much difference – I was still too hot and uncomfortable, and at 3.30 am I gave it up as a bad job, made a cuppa and went to read in the bathroom.

This latest in a long string of disappointing, virtually sleepless hotel nights left us both feeling rubbish, completely unrested, and aching from the previous day’s exertions, (I’d also spent the night wrestling leg-cramps, which I often suffer when I’ve been on my feet for long periods). Fit for nothing more, we could only hobble round the adjacent Roman fort earthworks and briefly around Old Malton before calling it quits – a real anti-climax when we’d planned to spend more time exploring, then return to the Old Stone Trough at Kirkham for lunch, and perhaps take in another site on the way home.

So we’ve decided that this 14th Anniversary Adventure will be a watershed: the last of its kind. No more wasting money on nights in hotels where we never sleep well, if at all. Short term, we’ll do day-trips only, lunching and/or dining in lovely places and coming home to our own bed, (which will please Henry Wowler, who dislikes being left unattended). Then in a couple of years, as we ease down further into retirement, we’ll buy a nice camper van so we can go away for longer and take our own bed with us!

Carole Buckley Edwards, 29th March 1961 – 7th May 2021

For all old girls of Cleethorpes Girls Grammar School, fans of the Grimsby Guitars, music pupils, staff and students at Grimsby College, and all family and friends unable to attend Carole’s memorial service at Grimsby Central Hall on Tuesday 25th May, here’s a transcript of my eulogy:

We all have our own stories to tell of the unique and indomitable Carole Buckley Edwards; and as we remember and celebrate her life, I’d like to share mine with you. I hope you’ll enjoy hearing it as much as I enjoyed living it with her.

I first met Carole in 1972 at Clee Girls’ Grammar School, sitting on my right across an aisle on the front row of Form 1A (purely due to our surname initials, not academic qualities or naughtiness!). As I got to know her, I was a little awed by her accomplishments: already a competent guitarist, she also played violin in the school orchestra as well as the recorder we all learned. She may have told you the ghastly tale of our school concert, eagerly anticipated by 1A because we thought we had an unbeatable programme to win the first year prize: a silly play I’d written, an hilarious Keystone Cops sketch performed as a film clip in slow-mo, fast-forward and normal speed, and a mandatory song as grand finale. We chose ‘Lemon Tree’ (very pretty), accompanied by Carole on guitar – but when she struck the first chords, it had gone out of tune! Cue faltering voices and sidelong looks of horror. Time and shame have blotted out whether she stopped to re-tune or we just soldiered on. Either way, I’m sure it cost 1A the prize – and what no-one knew until I finally confessed at our school reunion in 2017 was that it was All My Fault for idly toying with one of the tuning knobs while her guitar was propped next to me. (When I realised, I desperately tried to put it back as before – sadly to no avail).

A happier recollection is Carole entertaining 1A on guitar. Like everyone else in class, she had the obligatory pop-star poster, torn out of Jackie magazine, stuck inside her desk lid – but having more sophisticated musical tastes than the average twelve year old, Carole’s was of Marc Bolan (the rest of us being pretty evenly split between Donny and David). I’m sure all our classmates will remember her in her white polo neck, navy gym-slip and purse-belt, performing her rendition of ‘Metal Guru’ – which seems like an apt place to pause for a musical interlude, and one of the songs CB herself chose for today: another T-Rex favourite, ‘Ride a White Swan.’

*Marc Bolan Interlude*

As well as a musician, Carole was always a promising seamstress, keen enough to take dressmaking classes at night-school, and helped by mum Betty, knocked up our uniform wrap-around gym skirt in no time (it took me more than a term).  She was also the first person apart from my parents ever to give me a home-made Christmas present. You may recall early Seventies bath salts came in plastic bags and a choice of pink or green (rose or pine) scent. Carole had carefully layered the two colours into a jam-jar, and decorated the lid with a silver star– simple but effective, an early facet of the immense creativity that would go on to adorn her home with everything from Christmas garlands to Roman blinds and re-upholstered furniture, and enrich her family and friends with lovely hand-made gifts from patchwork quilts and felted baby slippers to jars of bramble jelly and bottles of pontack. And naturally, she also made lots of clothes, including Hallowe’en costumes and prom dresses for the twins, a pair of saggy-bottomed MC Hammer pants for me in the Eighties, and her own spectacular green wedding dress.

Seventies Cleethorpes was a great place to grow up, and as kids we had wide social circles, plenty to do and plenty of freedom to do it. Carole and I loved poking round the old town and spent countless hours shopping on St Peter’s Avenue, or browsing for fabrics in Boyes on Freeman Street, or spending whole Saturdays in the new precinct, trying on clothes and shoes, testing perfumes, and spending our pocket money on records and make-up; I think she even worked up town at some point as a Boots Saturday girl. We went swimming at Scartho Baths or Clee Bathing Pool, together or with groups of mates, and on cycling adventures to Louth or Hubbard’s Hills. The last time we did that was 1976. As we set off from Braemar Road, Grandma Buckley said, ‘Have you got coats in case it rains?’ We rolled our eyes at yet another blazing, cloudless sky. Yeah, yeah, we’d got our kagoules (hers blue, mine orange) – like we were going to need them. Needless to say, that was the day the drought broke. Said kagoules were plastered to us by the time we ate our picnic in the pathetic shelter of a Louth alley. Rain continued to pour as we admitted defeat and rode home. We stopped outside a big pub on the main road and debated begging shelter, but at only fifteen, felt too young and embarrassed because we looked like drowned rats, and too frightened of making a mess inside because we were literally streaming with water. Instead we pushed on through the rest of the miserable, cold, endless 16 miles, and I was glad I wasn’t going home with her to face the inevitable smug grandma ‘told you so’s’.

Meanwhile Carole was becoming a regular fixture at Oliver Street – my parents loved her – as I was at Braemar Road. I recall watching Abba for the first time on Top of the Pops with her and brother Steve, and thinking that skin-tight satin trousers aren’t a good look even for slim Swedish blondes, (though I suspect Agnetha’s shiny sausage thighs made a different impression on Steve). We did our homework, revised for exams, listened to music, drank gallons of coffee – Carole so addicted she used to buy her own private Nescafe stash and eat granules straight from the jar – did each other’s hair and make-up, had sleepovers, and gabbed endlessly in one or other of our purple and white teenage bedrooms, or nattered with our respective mums while stuffing ourselves with their fresh baking… all good clean fun until September ‘74, when we started in Form 3RK at Lindsey Upper School.

The first big change was our morning routine. I started calling for her and we’d walk round the corner to Lindsey together, wheeling my bike – that is, when she’d finally dragged herself out of her pit. I remember fidgeting in the kitchen, making small-talk with Betty while glancing repeatedly at my watch and fretting about being late. No doubt many of you will recall Carole could sleep like the dead, if you’ll pardon the expression, and didn’t take kindly to being disturbed; on one notorious occasion when crashing with friends in Germany, she was offered a bed on condition that if its owner returned during the night, she’d have to vacate it. Needless to say, when that happened, attempts to wake and extract her initially found her unresponsive, then as consciousness returned, abusive and adamantly refusing to budge – whereupon said bed’s rightful occupant ended up kipping on the floor.

The other big change at Lindsey was boys. The five who’d joined us in second year when Clee Girls went comp didn’t count – they were only our age, massively outnumbered by girls, and generally docile and easy to manage. Fifth and sixth-formers were a different matter, and mixing with them opened doors to different things, including a whole new musical world of progressive and hard rock. ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ was a monster hit, played till we knew every note  – which probably represents the start of our divergence from the mainstream. We still wore girly fashions though, and Carole developed her first major crush on a handsome lad from Matthew Humberston, Paul St Pierre. Determined to bag him as a boyfriend, she made another ultra-sexy waistcoat and pencil-skirt suit in black velvet for an upcoming school disco (her first attempt was grey with pin-tucks), to wear with a scarf and an artificial flower on the bodice. On the night, she looked fabulous, all Farrah Fawcett flicked hair, smoky eyes, full glossy lips, seamed tights and stilettos, and figure-hugging black… so she was utterly crushed to discover that velvet set Paul St Pierre’s teeth on edge and he recoiled from its mere touch, rendering any close physical contact out of the question. I don’t think they ever dated properly.

Our friendship was never jealous or exclusive, and as mid-teens we always had our separate interests. For instance, Carole joined the school yachting club and learned to sail at Covenham Reservoir, which never appealed to me despite the opportunity to hang out with older boys. I preferred horse-riding, which never appealed to Carole after a single Saturday morning mucking out with me at Old Clee stables, and sitting on the dung-heap afterwards to eat our sandwich lunch. Then slowly we became ‘besties’, disaffected with politics and pop culture, anti-nuke, anti-Nazi, anti-hunting – Carole went vegetarian around this time, if not entirely for ethical reasons (she didn’t like meat). Increasingly scornful of pop, disco and Northern Soul, by seventeen we’d come out as fully-fledged hippy rock-chicks in cheesecloth tops, Oxfam Jesus sandals, and Mary Quant lipstick, festooned with silver chains and love-beads, and reeking of patchouli. Having seen it all before with my older brother, my folks were relatively sanguine; whereas Carole once had to stash her precious denim collection in my wardrobe because her dad was so sick of seeing his formerly feminine daughter in jeans that he’d threatened to bin the lot.

At the time adults often assumed, to my intense annoyance on Carole’s behalf, that because I was physically bigger, I must be the dominant party leading her astray. On the contrary, we were always equal partners in crime, and if there was any straying to be done or a wild side to walk on, we did it side by side, eyes wide open, and quite deliberately. CB, as she was increasingly known, turned me onto reggae by playing ‘Exodus’ relentlessly at me until I succumbed. We also got heavily into heavy metal – ‘The Wizard’ from Richie Blackmore’s Rainbow Rising album was a particular favourite, which despite its grandiosity still brings me out in goose-bumps. We admired bikes, and bikers in black leather, hung out with Tech students at the Blue Note in Grimsby, and sneaked into licensed gigs at the Winter Gardens to see bands like Thin Lizzy and Manfred Mann’s Earthband – unbeknown to us all at the time, Tim was there too on that night. I can still picture her in a home-made white lacy camisole top, and faded jeans with a red and white stripy belt, singing along to their recent chart-topper ‘Blinded By The Light’ – a classic we’re going to hear now.

*Blinded By The Light*

Inevitably, pubs – the Boat, the Sheaf, the Eccy, the Barge, and others too numerous to mention – played a growing part in our social lives, as did older men. A romantic disappointment for Carole at the traditional Wheatsheaf end-of-term bash in December 1978 led to some serious drowning of sorrows. Highly emotional, she threw up in the taxi on the way back to ours. Only slightly less emotional, I told the driver (with commendable presence of mind, I thought, but I doubt he was fooled), ‘I’m sorry, my friend has gastric ‘flu.’ Settled weepily in my bedroom and plied with strong black coffee, she threw up again in my bit-bin (luckily metal, leak-proof and indestructible – I still use it) – and somehow, all this drama took place with my mum downstairs knitting and watching TV, blissfully unaware. Our biggest stunt in that respect was our summer ‘youth hostelling holiday’ in 1978. We did spend a couple of nights in the hostels at Lincoln and Streatley – vivid memories of preparing and eating our carefully-selected Vesta meals in the communal kitchens – but only en route to the Reading Rock Festival. We blew our ticket money on booze – a distinct advantage of hanging out with over-eighteens – and never made it into the arena, just sunbathed and partied on the campsite and sploshed in the Thames. As far as I’m aware, our parents never knew a thing about that either, or sundry other escapades for which we gave each other alibis.

In 1979, by happy accident rather than design, we both chose to do our degrees at Leicester Uni. Studying German and archaeology, our lectures were on the same campus so we often met up; I remember near the end of our first term we were having coffee in the Charles Wilson when news of John Lennon’s murder came on the radio, stunning us both. We made new sets of friends, and embarked on major relationships, CB’s with John Dyas and me with Garry Phillips; and all socialised together at her place or ours, or went for blow-outs at The Curry Pot on Melton Road. An unforgettable moment from our end of second year party came when CB, JD, Annie Riddock and Alistair Graham made their way past a row of big British bikes and up into our first-floor living room to find it half-full of big British bikers in Leicester Rat-Eye colours. Eyes like green saucers, she pulled me aside and whispered in great consternation, ‘Helen, do you know these people?’ She thought we’d been gate-crashed by Hell’s Angels we didn’t dare evict, bless her, rather than entertaining friends from the uni bike club. Luckily, common ground was soon established, the two groups coalesced, and a rip-roaring time was had by all (Gaz and I knew they’d like each other, given the chance).

CB spent the third year of her four-year degree course in Germany, where she became fluent to the point of calling her camera a ‘foto-apparat’ the first time we saw each other when she came home because she’d forgotten the English. In the meantime we’d kept in touch with letters, and a weekend jolly in Amsterdam; luckily our friendship could withstand separations and pick up immediately where we’d left off, with barely a break in conversation (and barely a cross word, ever, much less a real argument). We confided all our relationship traumas, her break-up with JD and getting together with Riff – facilitated by an illicit night in my parents’ bed while they were away on holiday and I was working a night-shift at Wold Farm. CB and I both worked several summer vacations there, she in the canteen and me on Quality Control. She always hated chicken day, having to ask a succession of Grimsby ex-trawlermen whether they wanted breast or leg. Naturally, all the blokes chatted her up, leading to this memorable exchange: Bloke: I’m lookin’ forward to this weekend. CB: Why, what are you doing? Bloke: I’m off to Brid wi’ me mates, drinkin’ and oarin’.  CB, (a sailor, remember): Oh, do you row? Cue mutual blank looks until it registered that he meant ‘whoring’…

After uni, CB and Tim moved into the ground floor flat at 21 Oxford Street, and she worked in the bar on Cleethorpes railway station while she thought about what to do next. Meanwhile I’d started a 3-year post-grad sandwich course, which allowed us to keep up our student pattern of seeing each other at home during holiday times. A common feature of ‘mornings after the night before’ in Cleethorpes was taking her and Tim coffee in bed, then feeding the cats and making a start on the last night’s debris while they slowly came to – whereupon we’d start all over again. I well recall one day round at Gary and Jo’s, trying to watch Blade Runner while their evil black dog, with its unsettling ability to freak out people in a vulnerable state, walked about on its hind legs, grinning at us. I thought I was hallucinating – but no.

Taking on voluntary work led to CB’s career in local authority social services in Grimsby and Hull, and a private sector stint for a horrible useless boss who literally drove her mad – it was the first and only time I ever saw her depressed. Throughout, we kept in touch by phone and odd notes; I always visited at Christmas and Easter, and for parties and special occasions, just as she or they visited me in various places I lived – gregarious and great company, CB always revelled in entertaining, or being entertained by, her many good friends. However, things were about to change drastically; her phone-call to tell me of a certain unplanned but happy event is a vivid memory – as is a weekend we spent on my boyfriend Steve’s boat when her already ginormous bump threatened to overbalance her at any second. As guests, she and Tim got the luxury of the pointy end, basically one great big triangular bed, while Steve and I slept in the main cabin. It wasn’t long after we’d retired that the rocking began, gentle at first them gradually building to a crescendo with the boat’s rubber buffers squeaking rhythmically against the mooring. A comparatively recent couple, Steve and I were first amazed then deeply envious of their staying power, especially with CB in such a condition. I wasn’t surprised to see them looking smiley and satisfied next morning, which CB attributed to a splendid night’s sleep; she, however, was surprised  when I retorted sourly, ‘I bet’, and accused her of keeping us awake and resentful (albeit impressed) for half the night. We eventually established that it wasn’t rumpy-pumpy that had rocked the boat, but the wake of an enormous barge which took a very long time to subside.

The twins duly arrived, (not to mention several generations of kittens from matriarch Custard – I was particularly fond of Spike and Merlin). I first met Sally and Amy one sunny afternoon in Doncaster when they were just a few weeks old, CB still boggling at having produced two such perfect little beings; and felt selfishly pleased and relieved when she didn’t go baby-gaga, but retained her own life and identity as a woman as well as a mother. She and Riff turned from relatively affluent dual-income-no-kids homeowners to broke, frazzled parents overnight, of course; but the girls were tremendous fun, the first children outside the family I ever loved and regarded as friends in their own right. And it obviously did them good to have such a strong female role model and a male primary carer – look how well they’ve turned out.

Marriage came a lot later, and as a complete surprise to me. CB’s relationship with Tim had always seemed perfect as it was, and despite having known her so well for so long, I didn’t know she was actually yearning to be wed. But I was honoured to be asked to deliver the bride, stunning in her emerald green dress, to Louth registry office in 2004 for a lovely personal ceremony followed by an equally lovely party at the Crow’s Nest – the nicest wedding I ever attended apart from my own three years later!

To me, the crowning glory of CB’s professional career was her exemplary work for Grimsby College, turning an inefficient, moribund department into a huge, profitable success, and I felt very proud of her. Inasmuch as I thought about her future, I assumed she’d carry on in this, her last and best job (after a self-employed interlude teaching music, invigilating exams and marking papers), for a few more years; then retire on a nice fat pension to enjoy her beautiful home, husband and family, playing her posh new guitar with the Grim Gits, doing her handicrafts, walking with her ladies’ group, going to the pub, gym and pool, travelling and taking holidays with Tim, and staying with loved ones at home and abroad; and we’d end up as a pair of daft old biddies doddering along Cleethorpes prom in Afghan hats and baggy jumpers, or cackling over a bottle of wine while Bob shot the sheriff and we put the world to rights.

Prior to September 2019, CB generally enjoyed robust health – I seldom recall her suffering anything much more serious than a cold. So it was shocking to see her that Christmas in severe pain from her hip – and devastating to learn a fortnight later that it wasn’t curable sciatica after all, but incurable cancer with (as I later discovered online) a poor prognosis for long-term survival. Throughout everything that followed, CB amazed me with her philosophical, practical, positive attitude. ‘It is what it is,’ she repeatedly said, always making the absolute best of her good times, and lightening the bad with black humour. ‘I know I shouldn’t,’ she’d say, lighting another fag, ‘but what the hell, I don’t have to worry about cancer.’ I’ll be eternally grateful that, albeit unable to hug, we saw nearly as much of each other in 2020 as in an average year. A good response to initial treatment freed her from pain, restored full mobility and gave hope for a longer remission, enabling her and Tim to squeak in a weekend visit in early March, when for once they could stay in a room we’d refurbished largely for their comfort as our only regular overnight guests, and we went to see the fantastic Damien Hirst exhibition at Yorkshire Sculpture Park; we also managed a summer picnic lunch between lock-downs before the next hammer-blow of bad news fell in the autumn and dashed our hopes – the cancer had escaped to continue its rapid, relentless invasion.

We began talking funerals. I offered to send a draft eulogy so she could read all the nice things I was going to say about her – an offer she didn’t take up, so I hope she’s listening in spirit today. She passed a series of milestones: Evelyn’s birthday, Peach’s birth, Christmas, New Year ‘21 and the anniversary of her diagnosis, Tim and the twins’ birthdays in January, and her own sixtieth on March 29th. We saw her for the last time at home at Easter shortly afterwards, looking frail but in typical good spirits and eating like a horse, trying to regain weight and strength for Sally’s wedding. My heart leapt to see those beautiful photos of the day with CB on her feet, stunning in a pale blue trouser-suit, looking so well that if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was perfectly healthy, if thin; and I was glad to hear that after treatment to restore her in the wake of this supreme effort, she’d be leaving St Andrew’s hospice to spend her final weeks – maybe stretching to months – in her own home.

Then things changed with bewildering speed: no longer home but hospice, no longer weeks but days – make that hours. CB wanted to see me, and unlike too many relations and friends living further afield, I could get there in time. I walked in prepared to find her asleep or unresponsive; but she’d saved a huge amount of her last mortal energy to stay conscious and hold a conversation for three-quarters of an hour. It was intensely emotional with moments of joyous connection, completely unlike any harrowing or heart-rending death-bed scene I’d ever experienced or imagined. The physical shell was too ravaged to stay in, but the quintessential Carole, her spiritual presence, was still there in such full force and beauty she made my eyes boggle; not the remotest sense of her passively fading into non-existence, more actively gathering herself to float free and move on. We agreed to try and give each other a call once she got to wherever; I hope I armed her to go with all my love and blessings, as she armed me to stay and bear her departure twenty-six hours later without the utter, howling devastation I’d been expecting and dreading ever since her diagnosis. On the contrary, CB is, and ever will be to me, simply elsewhere now, differently alive. So I had a little party for her next day, drinking toasts, playing our old favourite albums, and dancing round the house wearing the ring she gave me at Easter. In the middle of ‘Satisfy My Soul’ I erupted in flurries of goose-flesh; I hope that meant she’d torn herself away from jamming with Bob, Bolan and Bowie, and come to dance with me in joy and relief that her earthly ordeal was over at last – a suitable point to break off for the second of her musical choices:

*Love Interlude*

According to the Greek philosopher Socrates, death is either the best night of dreamless sleep you’ll ever enjoy, or a reunion in spirit with your late loved ones – and either way, not so bad. A great sleeper like CB would surely agree – just as, if she could give you a last message apart from her love and farewell, it would surely be, as she cautioned me, ‘Do your poo tests.’ However, having had the extraordinary privilege of witnessing her in a process of transformation rather than cessation, I can only believe in the latter, and trust that she’s embarked upon an eternity of fun with all her beloved souls.

And that’s the end of my tale. But as I said at the start, you all have your own Carole stories to tell – so tell them. Cook up a feast, crank up the sounds, crack a bottle or three, and laugh about all the crazy, wonderful things you did together over the years. I can’t think of a better way to honour the incomparable woman who enriched us all so much, enjoyed life so fully, and engaged in it so wholeheartedly, to her very last day. Party hearty in Heaven, CB.

New Year, New Website: introducing!

Sometimes life obliges us to do something we hadn’t planned or particularly wanted to do; then it works out so well we’re really glad we did it – in fact we wish we’d done it ages ago!

Such was the case for me with my brand-new WordPress website, I didn’t want a new website. I was happy enough with the simple, info-rich, advert-free old sites and, even though, (as work-hungry web designers never tired of spamming to tell me), they looked stale and outdated. They’d been wonderfully easy for a complete novice to set up on what would become ‘Classic’ WebEden, and easy to maintain despite a few annoying glitches with the software which I learnt to work round. But they needed the recently-obsolete Flash Player to run; so in autumn 2020, like it or not, I had to review my options and get a new site built before Flash expired at the end of December.

One might think that a quick, simple option would be to import the content to the new WebEden platform. However, for reasons I don’t understand, this facility wasn’t made available to users. I couldn’t even add a New site to the account I’d held there for 10 years, but had to create another separate account (something which generated a flurry of complaint on the company’s Facebook page from other Classic users in my position). Well, OK… I wasn’t happy, but decided to give it a go for the sake of continuity/to save the time and bother of searching for a new provider.

The first issue I ran into was one I subsequently found to be a common one with build-your-own website providers: a bewilderingly huge catalogue of themes to choose from, but all very ‘samey’ and none especially appealing. On Classic WebEden, it had been easy to flick between them and compare. Not so on New. I eventually selected a design I thought I could work with, couldn’t make head or tail of the software, (totally different to/less intuitive than Classic); then when I decided I didn’t like the look of it after all, I couldn’t escape from the damn thing. I searched vainly for a command to go back, collapse, close, replace, exit etc etc, growing crosser and crosser until in the end I hit ctrl-alt-del. Talk about user-unfriendly! I thought it was an extremely poor advert for the company, and atop all the other frustrations and technical problems I’d experienced, made me unwilling to persevere with the impenetrable software.

The next most obvious solution was to build the new site here, where I have my blog and reasonable proficiency with the software. WordPress sensibly maintains a much smaller stable of themes with a bit more individuality and imagination to them, and I easily spotted a couple I liked; but what if there was something even better out there? After an hour or so searching on-line, I concluded there wasn’t; at least, nothing eye-smackingly wonderful enough to compensate for missing the convenience of having my main internet presence all under one roof, so to speak.

So back I came to WordPress, tinkered about on one template, decided it didn’t work, and lo! was able to import what I’d done into a design I liked better. Easy-peasy. Keeping my domains? That was harder. WordPress doesn’t support domains, so I couldn’t transfer them as I’d hoped; I’d have retain WebEden as supplier, and map the site instead. But I could no longer log in to do so through Classic, because Flash Player no longer works – and then found I couldn’t log in through New, either! I tried every permutation of likely passwords, searched my diary in vain for the new log-in details, eventually admitted defeat and hit ‘forgotten password’ – and the re-set link failed to come through. (Twelve hours later, I’m still waiting).

That really was the final straw. The desire to keep my domains because all my publications sold or in stock carry the old website addresses was outweighed by a sudden, overwhelming desire to ditch WebEden and all the hassle that goes with it. So I promptly launched the basic framework of the new site on WordPress as, trusting that everyone who wants to will find me when I’ve updated all the search engines and references. I must admit, I’m chuffed to bits with the fresh new look, revamped text and new images, and looking forward to building it up with all sorts of features, including slide-shows of my Sandal Castle, Battle of Wakefield and Battle of Towton tours. (One of these days I’ll get round to building a new site on here as well). So do take a peek – I hope you’ll enjoy it and keep coming back to see my new blog posts and other developments!

Right Royal Bedroom Makeover!

Hubcap and I often joke that we’re the king and queen of Helmickton-sur-Bois, a tiny kingdom we inhabit along with our cat-son, Prince Henry Wowler, and countless other citizens of the furry, feathery, buzzy or creepy-crawly type, (but no servants, alas, which makes us perforce extremely active monarchs). Accordingly, since our bedroom with its cracked ceiling and split wallpaper (courtesy of the 2008 earthquake) and sick-stained carpet (courtesy of Prince Henry) was sadly overdue for re-decoration, I wanted a new, opulent look to reflect our regal status. And I’m so delighted with the result that I’d like to share it with you, primarily to praise various companies we used for the excellence of their work and/or quality of goods supplied, and also to acknowledge the many friends whose generous gifts helped me to create my dream bedroom.

The whole design pivots around a reproduction of Graham Turner’s famous painting of the Battle of Towton, with the main colour scheme azure-and-murrey, (blue and deep red), the Yorkist colours.

Some people might think hanging an image of conflict and death over one’s marital bed is inviting bad karma, but for us the picture has far happier associations. For a start, it was a wedding present from our good friend Martin, reflecting our personal history: Hubcap and I met, and subsequently had our marriage blessed, at Saxton on the southern edge of the Towton battlefield; for many years we both sat on the committee of Towton Battlefield Society, and founded/ran its affiliated Wars of the Roses re-enactment group, the Frei Compagnie; and we’ve both ‘met’ some of the casualties as skeletons from the mass graves excavated in and around Towton Hall by another friend/Society member, battlefield archaeologist Tim Sutherland. So the men in the picture feel like friends (indeed, one archer in the foreground bears an uncanny resemblance to Hubcap in build and stance!); we’ve literally walked in their footsteps, remembered and mourned for them, and commemorated their lives as re-enactors; and that’s why it hangs in this place of high honour, reminding us not only of the dead but of our wonderful medieval wedding weekend at The Crooked Billet in 2007, and all the happy times we’ve enjoyed on Society re-enactments, especially the Palm Sunday events in the grounds of Towton Hall.

To set it off, I painted the wall in Indigo Flame silk emulsion from my favourite Valspar v500 range supplied by B&Q, mixed to order in store – superior paints giving excellent coverage and good value for money. One big advantage is that all the available shades are painted on cardboard swatches you can view under three light sources – simulated daylight, fluorescent and energy-saving – to see exactly how it’ll look/easily match it against samples of your wallpaper, carpet or whatever. Brilliant idea. Another is the interesting way the palest shades behave on a wall, changing with the light, looking practically white in full sun and deepening to gorgeous, subtle colours in the shadows. We already have the faintly pink Lip Gloss and greenish-gold So Close in the bathroom and office, and the one I chose for the other three bedroom walls was Wisp of Cocoa, a delicious weak latte brown, to tone with our wooden furniture and patterns of the carpet. Otherwise, bog standard brilliant white silk vinyl and gloss took care of the ceiling and woodwork, and contrasted nicely with the walls and major new installation, the fitted wardrobes.

Splashing out on this was part of my plan to future-proof the room by maximising storage space and getting rid of the horrible, hard to clean dust-traps around our old free-standing wardrobes. Looking on-line for a local company, I found Hammonds in Leeds and requested their e-brochure, which arrived immediately; and even as I was browsing it, a sales-lady called me on my mobile. We arranged for a survey on the spot, and Phill the surveyor couldn’t have been more helpful or proficient in translating my ideas into a design, giving me loads of useful information and tips without any superfluous sales-talk, then advising me on how to save money and willingly re-doing the whole thing when the style I first chose proved to be outside my budget. (Ironically, I prefer the cheaper version he suggested to my original choice!). Everything then went exactly as arranged: a second, more detailed survey to check measurements/confirm details; the fitting itself, with a lovely fitter who worked his socks off to finish it in a single day; and an aftercare call to check that I was happy (I was, very). Absolutely impeccable service from beginning to end, and the beautiful wardrobes, with their soft-close doors, pull-out trouser rail and oodles of space meet our needs perfectly.

Hammonds is one of the best companies I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with, and I can’t recommend them highly enough – we’re certainly planning to use them again when we re-do our hobby-room next year.

Much the same can be said about the carpet. Again, I decided to splurge on a quality, traditional wool like the indestructible Axminsters and Wiltons my parents used to have, a carpet which would easily outlive me; and patterned rather than plain, to disguise the fact that the Helmickton royals are three messy, dirty beings. After a lengthy on-line search I was beginning to despair of finding what I had in mind, until I discovered the New Barrington Axminster range made by Hugh Mackay Carpets. The design ‘Kashmir’ literally made my jaw drop, and I knew straight away I had to have it. It has a vaguely Arts & Crafts feel, with dark red flowers to match my velvet curtains, and shades of tawny brown to go with the furniture (and the cat, who will no doubt shed copiously on it).

I duly contacted The Carpet Man, who’d made a grand job of supplying and fitting our new office carpet last year – and who was honest enough to say that it was too specialised a job for him, and refer me to Wakefield Carpet Specialists. I found WCS to be another faultless firm: the friendly, helpful staff did everything from ordering the carpet, storing it until the room was ready to receive it, then fitting it perfectly; they would even have shaved a millimetre off the bedroom door and re-hung it if I’d wanted to stop it brushing the pile. Just like Hammonds, WCS provides an old-fashioned personal service, with staff who clearly take pride in their work and seemed to genuinely enjoy supplying (quote) ‘a beautiful piece of carpet’ – definitely the go-to guys for specialised carpeting jobs in our area.

To complete the look, I treated us to a few luxury items in some of my favourite styles and themes from history, including the reproduction Tiffany stained-glass light fittings ordered on-line from Iconic Lighting.

Top marks again for quality, service and value for money: this ceiling lampshade and side-lamp arrived promptly, extremely well packed and intact, and look utterly delightful, especially when lit and the dragonflies’ eyes glow!

I’m also happy to commend the Belgian company Yapatkwa Tapestries for the fabulous throw and cushion cover which enabled me, at last, to dress my throne, (a magnificent folding period chair thoughtfully presented to me in my arthritic days by the Frei Compagnie, to spare my aching back on events), in suitably regal fashion.

The design on the heavy Jacquard throw is taken from my favourite Medieval tapestry, ‘La Dame et la L’Icorne‘, a copy of which I bought from the Musee du Moyen Age while on a culture-vulture tour of Paris in 1988, and now have framed on the wall alongside; the cushion cover is a Tree of Life by William Morris; both are sumptuously coloured, superb quality, a joy to behold and worth every penny.

Altogether it’s created a cosy Medieval-style reading corner, overlooked by another wedding present from Frei Compagnie friends Stu and Dawn: a portrait of King Richard III, whose fascinating story led me to Towton in the first place and who, in effect, introduced me to my husband!

The only slight disappointment was my ‘Strawberry Thief’ bed cover from the William Morris Company, supplied by Debenhams. There’s nothing wrong with the quality: it’s a stunning fabric, reversible, extremely well-made, and lightly quilted so that it’ll serve equally well as a heavy bedspread for the depths of winter, or by itself as an ultra-light duvet for summer heatwaves. No, the problem is the size: ‘Double/Kingsize’, which may be a tad small for the latter, but is WAY too stiflingly big for the former.

There’s no other size to exchange it for except Single, which will be too small; nor do I really want my money back, because in other respects I love it. So loath though I am to mutilate the most expensive piece of bedding I’ve ever bought, my only option is to cut it down to a sensible size for our standard double bed, re-hem it, and roll up/stitch the remnant to make a matching bolster cushion. Ah well – at least it’ll give me a project for those long winter nights!

Finally, a word on the other artworks, none of which are new and all of which have special meaning. The beautiful bronze-and-wood icon was a gift from my sister-in-law Anita, and sculpted by her late father, Willi Soukop, the prancing Balinese temple horses formerly hung in my parents’ hallway and were bought by Anita and my late brother John on their Far Eastern travels in the 1970’s; and the Ingres-style pencil portrait of a twenty-something me was drawn by my accomplished American friend Jim Fay in 1987, while I was living and working as an antiquities conservator in Baltimore, Maryland.

It’s lovely to sleep in such a rich-looking, comfortable and well-appointed room, surrounded by precious and beautiful things we’ve amassed over the years or had given by our loved ones; an eclectic mix of favourite periods and themes akin to the ‘pick and mix’ approach I took in creating the fantasy world in The Lay of Angor. I find it particularly satisfying that it allowed us to support a number of deserving businesses, at home and abroad, pumping some welcome cash into the economy in this uniquely difficult year. I can’t say how grateful I am to all the tradesmen and surveyors who continued to work during the second lockdown, enabling us to complete Project New Bedroom on time and according to plan, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about it as much as I enjoyed making it happen. And while you may not care for my choices, if you check out the company websites, you’ll see they supply a wide range of quality products in many different colours and styles to suit all tastes. Well worth a look if you’re planning your own right royal make-over!

Hedgehog Lives Matter

Now is the time of year you’re liable to see small hedgehogs bumbling about in the daytime (and all too often getting squashed on the road). These unfortunate youngsters, born late in the season, haven’t had enough time to fatten up sufficiently for winter, forcing them to forage in daylight, and making them vulnerable, in their weakness, to disease and pest infestation. So the hard truth is that most won’t survive hibernation – especially sad given that this iconic British animal is now an endangered species due to habitat loss, deliberate human cruelty and misplaced human kindness (never, but NEVER, give hedgehogs bread and milk! They’re lactose intolerant and it kills them. Don’t give dried mealworms, either, only meat-based cat-food – not fish – and biscuits, or special hedgehog food).

So yesterday afternoon at Beckside, Hubcap wasn’t entirely surprised to see a young hedgehog wandering about in the open, being plagued by a swarm of green-bottles (‘fly-strike’, a horribly apt term). Needless to say he retrieved it, shooed off the flies, and brought it home in a bucket of hay.

Neither of us had great hopes for its survival. Although we couldn’t see any obvious wounds, it was covered in fly eggs (plus a couple of ticks), lethargic, and small; we hoped it was just cold, hungry, thirsty and disoriented rather than sick. We knew from experience, (having found a young hog of similar size but in even poorer condition a couple of years ago), that our local vet couldn’t do anything for it. Luckily, as we have resident hedgehogs in the garden which we house and feed year-round, we were reasonably well-equipped to try some DIY; so rather than risk Hoggie dying before we could get it to a sanctuary, I Googled ‘remove fly eggs from’ and ‘emergency first aid for’ hedgehogs and acted on some refreshingly simple information I found on

First I prepared a bed in an old washing up bowl, lined with a warm hot-water bottle wrapped in a tea-towel, topped it with a pad of hay, and laid the patient on it to start slowly raising its body temperature. Then I assembled my instruments: a small artist’s paintbrush, cotton wool swabs, and tweezers and forceps from my old museum conservation toolkit; set up the illuminated magnifying glass Hubcap uses for tying fishing flies; and with some trepidation, set to work. Bar the odd flinch, poor little Hoggie was too exhausted and torpid to protest, which made it relatively easy to spread its bristles and find the disgusting yellowish-white masses of fly eggs laid close to its skin; luckily these stick together and can be extracted in big clumps, (as satisfying as squeezing pimples!), rather than picked out individually, which would have taken all night. As it was, I spent the best part of an hour tweezing out all but a couple of stubborn single eggs adhering to the bristles – by which time I (and probably the hedgehog) had had enough, and I hadn’t yet found, let alone removed, any ticks; but hadn’t seen any fleas either, which was good news.

While I’d been thus occupied, Hubcap had sorted out a recovery ward in a large plastic storage tub lined with newspaper, with a pile of hay and bits of old sheet for bedding, a dish of water, and a dish of Henry Wowler’s chicken-flavour cat-food. In went the hog, on went the lid, and we left it in peace and warmth in front of the stove.

A couple of hours later it started scrabbling around and polished off the cat-food – an encouraging sign. I gave it some more, plus some dry hedgehog kibble. It liked that a lot, proved by the soon-emptied dish. I gave it some more. Meanwhile I’d found lots of excellent advice from Hedgehog Bottom, Berkshire’s Hedgehog Clinic, a voluntary group whose delightfully witty website is worth reading purely for information and enjoyment, and resolved to put it into practice ASAP. 

And contrary to our initial gloomy predictions, Hoggie did last the night, alternately stuffing its face then sleeping it off tangled like a teenager in a horrible mess of bedding; and by next morning, curled adorably on its side like a tiny bristly cat, looked bright-eyed and remarkably perky. We duly went straight out to buy pet-safe disinfectant, proper food bowls, a bag of hay, (Hubcap cursing because we’d just had a field full at Beckside, but not foreseeing a need, hadn’t processed any for storage!!) – and lots more hog-food. Then, as recommended by Hedgehog Bottom, while Hubcap did the mucking out I popped Hoggie onto my digital kitchen scales: only353 g, at least 250 g below the minimum for successful hibernation. That answered our first question: yes, we need to keep it indoors and let it pog until it’s practically doubled in weight, when we can move it out to a luxury wooden Hedgehog Hotel, complete with bed compartment and dining area, under our new lean-to in the garden. I also tried to find odd fly eggs (or, God forbid, maggots) and the ticks Hubcap mentioned – but by now the full and feisty Hoggie had enough strength to ball up tightly, contracting its skin and pulling the bristles together wherever I probed. I’ll have to keep trying this every day until, hopefully, it becomes sufficiently accustomed to handling to relax and let me examine and treat it properly. Meanwhile my best hope is that the loosened eggs fell out and were thrown away with the soiled bedding!

Finally, we installed hog-home in the hobby room and put it in as recommended, with chopped-up old fleece and shredded newspaper for nesting. Looking in an hour later, I saw it snugged into a hollow in the hay, sound asleep, breathing deeply – completely transformed from yesterday’s limp scrap into a warm, fed, watered and healthy-looking (if no doubt highly bewildered) little creature. It was a joy to see, especially knowing that Hoggie would surely have died in this big, cold, wet storm if Hubcap hadn’t found it; and even if it doesn’t survive till next spring, we’ll have the consolation of knowing that its days ended in comfort and safety.

But so far, so good – a cycle of eating, sleeping and evacuation has been established, with an immediate and very noticeable improvement in Hoggie’s energy and appearance, (needless to say, if we’d seen any sign of disease, like crying or wheezing, we’d have taken it to the nearest hedgehog specialist). Hopefully this regime of warmth, restricted movement and plentiful food will allow it to gain up to 10 g per day (indicative of good health) – in which case it could be outside in the Hotel by November, with a chance to hibernate naturally, find food nearby if it wakes, and be restored to Beckside next spring to help raise a new generation of these delightful creatures.

In short: if you find an ailing hedgehog, don’t panic! Look up and apply the emergency first-aid procedures, they’re quite simple. Then if you can’t provide the requisite ongoing care, contact the RSPCA or your local hog sanctuary – because every one matters, now more than ever, and we need to save their precious little lives wherever possible.