Last week, I was the guest speaker at a wonderful Probus lunch in Leicestershire. I told the assembled throng that the newspaper columnist is basically a cannibal (locust, if you want to be polite), feasting on all the human stories that come her way, then regurgitating them for public amusement or condemnation. “You’ll be in the column next week,” I warned. My, how they laughed! Well, here I am, shamelessly using that fine gathering of retired men (hello, Brian!) and women (hello, Heather!) to illustrate a point. Still, I hope they will forgive me because I feel that it is a point well worth making.
Although they were not of a generation that would say so, my audience had endured a great deal in the past 20 months. “Are you lot still in Tier 3?” I joked. They groaned. Leicester was under the strictest Covid restrictions for the longest time. It must have been bleak. On Wednesday, even though they are in a vulnerable (I prefer venerable) group, there they were, embracing old friends, downing goldfish-bowl G&Ts (there was puzzlement when I failed to finish mine), eating…
