“I’m gittin’ all spruced up to go to the Christmas Party,” says Albie, “and I’m hoolly lookin’ forward to that an’orl!”

www.albiestales.co.uk part three

Jarrold Magazine Christmas 1962 EDITOR: R T Skipper DESIGN: A Gray COVER: Tony Shearing News & Chatter A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE “A happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year to all. Some of you joined us during the year and we hope you will have many happy years with Jarrolds’s. A few have retired and we thank you for your help during your time here. We are all engaged in the production and distribution of goods for our fellow-beings throughout the world and not for ourselves. Let us be thankful for the good fortune we have had in the past and be proud to achieve together even better results in the future.” H JOHN JARROLD CHAIRMAN NETBALL SECTION This year we had three members of our Netball team enter the County Netball Trials and all three were successful. They were: Miss Brenda Frosdick Litho , Reserve Goal Defence, and Miss Rosalind Andrews Bindery, Reserve Wing Attack — Senior County team; Miss Jennifer Manning Cost Office, Goal Shooter — Junior County team. Jennifer Manning (above) had already played one game for the Junior County team when they played against Suffolk at Ipswich on Saturday, 27 October. The result of this match was a win for Norfolk 18-17. Brenda (above) and Rosalind (below) have yet to play for the Senior County team and are both waiting for the chance to help make it another win for Norfolk. We wish all three a happy and successful Netball season. IT’S LATER THAN YOU THINK! Everything is farther than it used to be. It’s twice as far from my house to the station as it used to be, and they’ve added a hill that I just noticed. The buses leave sooner, too, but I’ve given up running for them because they go faster than they used to. Seems to me they are making staircases steeper than in the old days. The risers are higher and there are more of them; it’s harder to make two at a time. It’s all one can do to make one step at a time. Have you noticed the small print they are using lately? Newspapers are getting farther and farther away – when I hold them up I have to squint to make out the news. Now it’s ridiculous to suggest that a person my age needs glasses, but it’s the only way to find out what’s going on without someone reading aloud to me, and that isn’t much help because everyone seems to speak in such a low voice that I can scarcely hear them. Times sure are changing. The barber doesn’t hold the mirror behind me when he is finished so I can see the back of my head. The material in my clothes, I notice, shrinks in certain places, like around the waist; shoelaces are so short they are next to impossible to reach. Even the weather is changing. It’s getting colder in winter, and the summers are hotter than in the good days. Snow is much heavier when I try to shovel it, and the rain is so much wetter that I have to wear rubbers; I guess the way they build windows now makes draughts more severe. People are changing, too. For one thing they are younger than they used to be when I was their age. On the other hand, people my age are so much older than I am. I realize that my own generation is approaching middle age (to me that is roughly between twenty and one hundred), but there is no reason for my classmates to be tottering blissfully into senility. I ran into an old school chum of mine the other night and I had changed so much that he didn’t recognize me. “You've put on a little weight, Sam,” he said. “It’s this modern food,” I replied, “it seems to be more fattening!” Looking in the mirror this morning, I noticed they don’t even use the same kind of glass any more. JUMBLE GRUMBLE A well-known member of the Binding Room staff frequently collects left-off garments for jumble sales organized by the Little Sisters of the Assumption to raise funds for their charitable activities. In a recent jumble sale, which made £40, were two fur coats, which were obviously well worn. During the sale a dear old lady was looking at one of the coats with great interest and some perplexity. She caressed the fur and then departed undecided. After a little while she returned to the stall and after further examination inquired the price. The dear old soul was regarded compassionately told the price was one shilling and sixpence [7.5p]. After a little more examination the old lady whispered hesitatingly: “It’s got the moth in it!” Whereupon she was gently informed that she couldn’t expect brightly coloured butterflies for 1/6, and she would have to put up with the moth.

NOW ONLINE! ALBIE’S POEMS: Reflections of a Norfolk Lad. If you have enjoyed reading Albie’s Tales you may like to take a look at his books of short poems, containing many beautiful, and well-illustrated, pieces of poetry – some even in Norfolk dialect! Published online for the first time, just click the links below to be enchanted by Albie’s Poetry! Welcome! Meet the boy Albie Albie's Poems Albie's Thoughts ALBIE’S THOUGHTS: A Poetic Journey Through Bygone Seasons. NOW ONLINE!

DISCOVER SANTA’S
SECRET

A CHRISTMAS TALE
FOR CHILDREN

OR SOME TIME Albie had been growing increasingly restless at weekends with nothing to do now that his motorcycle was off the road, condemned to the garden shed, for the foreseeable future. The daily train journey, to and from Norwich to work, was also proving most tiresome for the lad as it seemed a total waste of two hours each and every day. Then, one day, he came up with the answer to all his problems: he would leave home and look for a place of his own, – after all, he was twenty-one he told his parents! They, of course, were not exactly over-enthusiastic at the idea and dismissed it out of hand. There was some other reason he wanted to leave home, they told him, and swiftly came to the conclusion yet another young lady had turned his head! In fact, they were not far wrong! Albie, however, simply shrugged his shoulders and began searching the small ads in the Eastern Daily Press for an affordable flat or bedsit in the city. However, the solution to his problems was there all the time, right under his very nose...

GEOFFREY CHAPMAN worked in the Bindery and, being close to retirement age after working at Jarrold Printing for more than twenty years, was looking for a little extra income, so, he and his wife decided to take in a lodger! One day, he mentioned this to Miss McReynolds in the Personnel department who knew just the person – Albie!

One Saturday, during late August 1962, with his suitcase crammed full of shirts, trousers and jumpers, and tied on the back of his bicycle, and a duffle bag packed with vests, pants and toiletries slung over his shoulder – not to forget his cream and red Dansette record player balanced precariously on the bike’s handlebars – Albie waved goodbye to his parents and left home.

“Oh, dear,” his mother sobbed into her handkerchief, “we’ve lorst our o’ny child for good...”

“Never mind, Gladys,” said his father, in an attempt at consoling his wife, “he’ll not stick it for long– he’ll soon be back when he discovers what side his bread’s buttered, yew mark my words!”

First stop for Albie was Sheringham railway station where he awaited the arrival of the train to Norwich, and the start of a new life free from parental constraints, or so he hoped!

Upon arrival at Thorpe Station in Norwich, Albie quickly alighted and began pushing his bicycle through the busy city streets, heading towards Aylsham Road and the Boundary where the Chapman family lived in a three-bedroom council house, just around the corner, on nearby Rye Avenue.

ALBIE ARRIVES AT HIS ‘DIGS’

“Yours is the room at the top of the stairs on the left, Albie,” Mrs Chapman told him, welcoming him at the front door, “once you’ve unpacked we’ll all have a nice cup of tea.”

“Will you be biking to work?” Mr Chapman asked him, as Albie began unloading his belongings off his bicycle, “If not, we could go on the bus together – that leaves the Boundary just before eight every morning, an’ there’s a choice of four...”

“Yes,” replied Albie, setting his record player down in the hallway, “I’ll catch the bus if tha’s wet, I reckon – but cycle if tha’s fine.”

“Let me help you upstairs with your suitcase,” said Donna, the Chapman’s sixteen-year-old daughter, giving him a big smile, then, noticing his Dansette: “Oooh – a record player! Do you have any of Cliff’s records – or Billy Fury’s? I do like them, they’re my favourites, they are!”

“No – sorry,” replied Albie, struggling upstairs with his Dansette, “I’ve got Elvis, or the Everly’s...”

“This is your room,” Donna told him opening the bedroom door, then, pointing across the landing: “and tha’s mine! Can you manage, or would you like me to help you unpack? Then, we could listen to some of your records in your room, if you like...”

They all seemed so friendly, thought Albie, unpacking his shirts and hanging them in a wardrobe. It was definitely a ‘home from home’ and he just knew he was going to like it there.

LIFE WITH THE CHAPMANS

The house at Rye Avenue was now home to Albie, having been there for the past two months, and it was so convenient for work with none of the getting up early to catch the first train of the morning to Norwich, or the hourly journey each way being time wasted. Now he was a mere ten minutes away from Jarrolds by bus, or, if he preferred – and he often did – he could walk it briskly in twenty minutes!

Another advantage of lodging in the city was he could see his ‘young lady friend’ every day of the week now, morning, noon and night, even cycling to her home over the other side of Norwich at Sundays.

The only ‘downside’ was he now had to pay for his ‘board and keep’, with a little bit extra on top for Mrs Chapman to do his washing and ironing for him!

Living with the Chapman family had its interesting moments, as Geoffrey’s wife liked to ‘entertain’ some unusual visitors, as Albie discovered one weekend following a knock on the front door.

“Oh, please do come in, my dears,” said Mrs Chapman, as two very smartly-dressed young men stood on the doorstep, “and go straight through to the front room, will you?”

“Thank you, Ma-am,” drawled the first young man with a Deep South accent, taking a booklet out of his briefcase, “may the Good Lord bestow His blessings upon you and yours!”

“And also to you,” replied Mrs Chapman.

Donna was listening to some of Albie’s records when her mother ushered the young men into the front room. “Would you and Albie play your gramophone elsewhere, please?” she asked them. “We’ve like to discuss my spiritual being, if you don’t mind.”

“Why not take my Dansette to your room, Donna?” Albie suggested, switching off and unplugging it.

“Good idea!” she replied enthusiastically, “are you coming?”

“No,” replied Albie, putting on his coat, “I think I’ll go out on my bike.” With that, he went of of the back door and towards the garden shed where his bicycle was kept.

In the garden Mr Chapman was busily gathering up fallen leaves: “Hello, Albie – goin’ out, are ya?”

Albie nodded, getting his bike out of the shed: “Yes – you’ve got visitors, I think...”

“Not them Mormons again?” declared Mr Chapman, throwing down the garden rake and storming indoors, “that’s all she thinks of these days, blessèd Mormons – she’ll have me in the bone-yard before my time, she will!”

From inside the house came the sound of much shouting and, as the smartly-dressed, young men from Salt Lake City quickly left the house in Rye Avenue – assisted by much gesticulating by Mr Chapman – leaving Mrs Chapman protesting loudly at her husband on the front doorstep.

“Blessings be upon you, Mrs Chapman,” Albie heard one of the Mormons say, opening the front gate, then, turning to Mr Chapman: “Peace be with you, brother...”

“I’ll give you peace,” shouted Mr Chapman, “you’ll get a piece of my mind if you set foot here again!”

Then, turning to his wife standing crying on the doorstep: “I’ve told you before: don’t let them into this house – at this rate, I’ll soon be in the bone-yard!”

An expression Albie was to hear, time and time again!

“No – let me get you one, Albie,” his friend replied, putting his hand into his pocket and taking out a five-pound note.“Beer? Or gee and tee, perhaps?”

“Thank you – but, no, thanks,” Albie replied, with Mrs Chapman’s words of advice still ringing in his ears, “I’ll just have orange squash, if I may?”

“What are you drinking, Albie?” Tony Mullins asked him, taking off his coat and laying it on a bar stool. “It’s rather chill out there tonight – let me get you a little something in your orange juice to warm it up a bit...”

“No, this’s fine, thanks, Tony,” Albie replied, putting his hand over the top of the glass, but his protests fell on deaf ears as his glass was whipped away from him.

“Hello, my dear – you look absolutely stunning this evening!” Tony said to the barmaid, handing her Albie’s glass. “Put something a little stronger in this, will you? And I’ll have a vodka!”

Tipping a measure of clear liquid into Albie’s orange juice and pouring a glass of vodka topped with a slice of lemon, the barmaid handed the glasses back to Tony.

“Thank you, Sonya, my love,” he said, then, leaning over the bar he whispered: “Perhaps we could get together sometime?”

LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN

The bar began to fill up as, one by one, other members of the Design Department arrived for the Christmas Party. At eight o’clock they were shown to their tables in a rather dimly-lit corner of the restaurant.

“I should o’ brought a torch,” laughed Albie, the mysterious ingredients of his orange juice beginning to take effect. “’Corse that’ll be hard to see wha’s on me plate!”

“Behave yourself, Albie!” laughed Mike, on the next table, pulling a cracker with Anne-Marie and donning a party hat. “Here comes the starter.”

“And you gotta eat it all up, Albie,” Tony Mullins told him, as the waitress – all dressed in black with a frilly white apron – began handing out tall glasses of prawn cocktails, “if you don’t, you won’t get any pudding!”

“I en’t hevin’ none o’ that slop,” Albie declared abruptly, holding up his hand, “hen’t ya got no soop?”

“Well – I’m not too sure,” replied the flustered waitress, “ I’ll hatta ask the cook...”

Back in the kitchen, with a tin of Tomato hastily opened, heated and returned to Albie’s table, all hands began to make light work of presenting the main course – roast Norfolk turkey with seasonal vegetables and all the trimmings.

“Tha’s more like it!” Albie declared, finishing off the last remaining dregs of Cream of Tomato, and wiping his mouth on a napkin as he’s seen others do. “I hoolly like roast chicken, I do!”

With the wine flowing freely and one bottle of Sauterne following another to refill half-empty glasses, the designers began working their way through the veritable feast laid out before them. However, Albie began picking at his meal as if searching for something.

“What’s up, Albie?” asked Sylvia, sitting on the opposite side of the table, “is it not to your liking?”

“No – I’m lookin’ for me wish bone,” he replied, poking at his roast turkey, “that dun’t seem t’be there...”

John laughed: “They don’t give you any bits of bone, Albie, you might choke yourself!”

“Who is that boy?” Mrs Oliver asked her husband, “I’m glad we’re not on his table.”

“Oh, um-mm, Albie?” the Design manager replied, pulling a cracker with Nita, the Xerox operator, on the other side of the table. “He’s harmless enough – although always getting into one scrape or another. Quite good at his job though.”

Tony, sitting next to Nita, gave her a nudge. “I slipped something into his drink – that’s why Albie’s so talkative!”

“Oh, Tony – you’re incorrigible!” scolded Nita, slapping his knee under the table.

“Don’t encourage him,” laughed Anne-Marie.

LEFT (from left to right): Michael Oliver, the manager of design with his wife, and Mike Fuggle, the head designer, enjoying an after-dinner cigar! RIGHT (from left to right): Sylvia Pointer, John Newland, Albie (in a silly party hat as usual!), Eileen Dixon, Hazel Lemon and Michael Oliver in foreground. LEFT (from left to right): Our Albie getting a bit amorous towards Eileen Dixon (or was it the drink?), whilst Hazel Lemon looks on! RIGHT (from left to right): Michael Oliver, Mike Fuggle in party hat, Anne-Marie Arbon, Nita Coxall and Tony Mullins.

After generous helpings of Christmas Pud, coffee and mince pies, the menfolk began lighting cigars with some partaking of glasses of brandy. On one occasion, against his better judgment, Albie put his arm around a bemused Eileen, who had the misfortune of sitting next to him – but just for the camera, of course.

But soon, after a sumptuous evening, it was time to leave.

“Why don’t we all adjourn to my place?” said Hazel, as they stepped out into the frosty night air. “We could have a few cocktails and dance the night away – what d’you think?”

“What a good idea!” they all agreed – all except Albie, that is, who was ready for his bed. So, with a cheerful wave to them all, returned by a chorus of: “Merry Christmas, see you on Monday” he telephoned for a taxi to take him back to Rye Avenue.

NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

After five minutes, standing on the freezing pavement outside the restaurant, a black cab arrived, from Beeline Taxis in Surrey Street.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Rye Avenue, please,” Albie replied, opening the door and sitting next to him. “Just off the Boundary.”

It was when they turned into Colegate that Albie sensed something was wrong.

“Can you smell burning?” he asked, sniffing all around him. “I swear I can, can’t you?”

The taxi driver stopped the car and began looking under the dashboard: “You’re right!” he replied, opening one of the glove compartments. “That seem t’be comin’ from under here...”

Just then there was a puff of smoke, quickly accompanied by a strong smell of burning rubber. Closing the lid of the glove compartment, the smoke seemed to stop.

“Well – tha’s a rummun,” he said, driving off again, “don’t reckon there’s much to worry about though, probably just suffin’ t’do with the heater.”

As they were driving along Aylsham Road the burning rubber smell suddenly became almost unbearable, making Albie feel quite sick, and the inside of the cab filled up with smoke.

“I think I’d better get out,” said Albie, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll walk the rest of the way, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself,” replied the taxi driver, slamming on the brakes, “but you’ll still hatta pay!”

Quickly getting out of the stricken taxi cab, threatening to burst into flames at any moment, Albie began the ten minute walk to Rye Avenue and the Chapman residence.

“You’re not too late,” said Mr Chapman, looking at the clock as the lad stepped into the hallway. “That’s only quarter to eleven!”

“Did you have a nice time, Albie?” Mrs Chapman asked, making him a cup of Ovaltine.

“Yes – lovely, thanks – apart from the taxi ride home,” he replied, unclipping his bow-tie. “But at least I didn’t need that hanky after all!”

T’WAS THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Albie started his Christmas holiday on Friday, 21 December, being allowed to leave off work at 3pm in the afternoon. As he made his way back to his lodgings, passing shops and houses decorated with fairy lights and colourful chains, he began to think of home.

Already carol singers were out and about singing the wonderful story of Christmas. How he loved to hear the Salvation Army band playing The First Noel next to the Town Clock in Sheringham. Never mind, he thought, putting on a brave face, he’d told his parents he was leaving home for good, so there was no turning back now. Anyway, they’d hardly want him back, would they? Season of goodwill, bah – humbug!

Saturday, the 22nd, was no better. Albie went to see his girl friend and do some last-minute shopping, but his heart was not in it. As soon as he returned to his lodgings, late that afternoon, he went to his room and there he stayed all of the Sunday, only putting in the briefest of appearance to merely pick at the tastiest of meals.

“Wha’s wrong with Albie?” Donna asked her father. “Is he sickening for something? I do hope not, with Christmas coming an all.”

Mr Chapman shook his head in dismay. “He was all right at the start of the week,” he said, “perhaps it’s something he ate...”

“Nothing of the sort – there’s nothin’ wrong with my cooking!” declared Mrs Chapman, knowing full well what the lad’s problem was. “The boy’s homesick, that’s what it is. That is his first Christmas away from home, after all!”

Albie didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, as he knew exactly what he had to do.

First thing Monday morning, 24 December – Christmas Eve – after washing and dressing, Albie got on his bike and embarked on the 30-mile journey of a lifetime back to his home town of Sheringham to see his parents – the very first time in over three months!

Everything was against him, it seemed, as, although the morning had dawned bright and sunny, it was bitterly cold, extremely frosty and the roads were like glass. To make matters worse there was a biting northeasterly wind making for slow headway, which was compounded by enforced stops, every now and again, on account of his bicycle having a slow puncture!

“I really don’t think this was a very good idea,” he said to himself, stopping by the roadside near Hevingham church to pump some air into the flat tyre on his back wheel. “At this rate, that’ll take all day – if I ever get there!”

Eleven o’clock saw Albie struggling through Marsham along the tree-lined road and up the hill into Aylsham. Pausing in the Market Place, with its giant Norwegian spruce bedecked with glittering lights, Albie once again applied his bicycle pump to the back wheel to get enough pressure in the tyre to carry him another four or five miles.

“Tha’s blimmin’ cold,” he said, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to restore some feeling to his frozen fingers. “A warm drink’d be nice...”

Out of the question he discovered, feeling in his pockets for a few spare coppers. “I’ve o’ny got enough to buy Mum an’ Dad a bottle of something, mustn’t fritter that away – anyway, best get on!”

Once through Aylsham, Albie began to make better progress, especially downhill into the charming little village of Ingworth, which, from the distance, took on the appearance of a Christmas card with Jack Frost coating rooftops, with the trees icy fingers pointing heavenward into clear blue skies.

Making the mistake of misjudging his speed as he approached a sharp left-hand bend, he fell in an untidy heap on the icy road as his bike slid from under him. Picking himself up, Albie applied a finger and thumb to his back tyre, deciding a bit more air was required before setting of again.

As the morning dragged on, slipping and sliding on the icy roads, stopping every now and again to see to his bicycle, it seemed he was never to reach the end of his journey.

Glancing at his wristwatch, it was almost noon as he passed Hanworth Post Office, so he decided to miss out Cromer by taking a short cut though Felbrigg, joining the Holt Road, and taking the byways to Roman Camp and West Runton.

Almost at the end of his tether, Albie was greatly relieved when Beeston Bump came into view, with its distinctive shape outlined against a grey wintry sea. Finding a last sudden inrush of energy, Albie pedalled furiously along the Cromer Road and into Sheringham, his home town. He’d made it at last and, boy, was he glad!

By now, it was early afternoon and already street lights were beginning to come on. Here and there, Albie caught glimpse of Christmas decorations, colourful paper chains and Chinese lanterns, visible through front room windows before curtains were hastily drawn to shut out the worst of the drab, grey December day.

Turning right at Hill’s Garage crossroads, he bumped over the uneven level-crossing at Sheringham railway station. Freewheeling down Station Road, with its colourful festive lights strung out from side to side, he could just make out the sound of the Salvation Army band playing carols near the Town Clock.

Station Road was seething with shoppers scurrying about, dashing into one shop after another. So intent on filling their baskets and shopping bags with last-minute gifts for little Jack or Jill, they failed to notice Albie approaching on his bike until the very last moment. Ringing his bell, in a most polite way, his ears began to burn as “road-hog” or “can’t you wait a minute?” were hurled after him.

Albie just had to stop.

Not for the pedestrians with nothing on their minds but emptying the shops of seasonal goods, but because of the tree next to the Town Clock. A giant spruce from Sheringham Park: beautifully decorated with colourful lights twinkling and glittering as its lush green branches dipped and swayed, stirred by the northeasterly breeze coming off the sea.

Standing by the Town Clock, with his eyes affixed on the Christmas tree, it felt cold enough to snow, he thought. And then it did, with the first telltale flakes of winter beginning to coat the sharp green pine needles with fluffy, icy whiteness. Soon, the roads and pavements were brushed by a light dusting as the snow swirled downwards and sideways, this way and that, coating everything in its path.

Albie stood as if in a dream.

It was like the Christmases he had always known – and loved. Yet, somehow, he felt he was not part of it, an unwelcome intruder almost, having turned his back on family, friends and home. Unwanted emotions began welling up inside as he stood in silence, gazing up at the Christmas tree, listening to the Salvation Army band playing carols, and being jostled by the happy crowd of shoppers still looking to fill the Christmas stockings.

Almost next door to Starlings, the newsagents and toyshop, was a little shop selling ‘Wines & Spirits’ so he went in out of the cold to buy a ‘bottle of something or other’ for his parents.

“What can I get you, lad?” the man behind the counter asked.

Emptying his pockets and depositing the contents – a screwed-up, one-pound note and a handful of loose change – on the counter, he replied: “I’d like something for Mum – what’ll this buy, please?”

“Not a lot,” laughed the man, turning and reaching for a little bottle of De Kuypers off a shelf behind him. “But, bein’ tha’s Christmas, how about this cherry brandy? She should like that – but, tha’s the best I can do I’m afraid...”

“Thanks very much,” said Albie, clutching the bottle with both hands, “tha’s very kind of you – Happy Christmas!”

As he left the shop, Albie was drawn again to the Christmas tree next to the Town Clock.

Putting the bottle of De Kuypers safely in the saddlebag on his bike, he decided to listen to the Salvation Army band for a while. With snowflakes sticking to his hair and eyebrows, making his eyes sting and smart with the cold, he heard the words of one of his favourite childhood carols: Good King Wenceslas.

The snow was falling heavier now, but he hardly noticed. Cars were slipping and sliding, people were sheltering in doorways and under their umbrellas, but Albie was only aware of the Salvation Army Songsters singing:

“Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer.“

“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage, freeze thy blood less coldly.”

“I know just how he felt!” said Albie, as he pulled up his coat collar and continued on his way.

THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!

Albie felt a complete stranger as he rode his bicycle down Regis Place, leaving little tyre tracks in the fallen snow. Nervously, he knocked on the front door of Regis Cottage.

“OH ALBIE!” his mother cried, as she opened the door, flinging her arms around his neck. “You’ve come home... AT LAST! Dad will be so-oo very pleased!”

“Yes – I have, and... I’m... so... sorry, Mum...” was all he could say, before the pent-up emotions of the past three months got the better of him. For a while, mother and son just sat, side by side, warming themselves in front of the roaring fire in the living room. Not a word was said – nor needed – for Albie’s homecoming said it all.

“I bought... this... for you... an’ Dad,” Albie eventually managed to say, handing her the bottle of cherry brandy. “Sorry tha’s not wrapped, but I din’t hev much time to do Christmas shopping...”

He could say no more as tears welled up inside his eyes again. Whatever had possessed him to leave home in the first place, he thought, covering his face with his hands. How he wished he could turn back the clock a few months.

“I think we could do with some of that now, don’t yew?” laughed his mother, taking the bottle from him and uncorking it, “for medicinal purposes o’ny, you understand!”

“Happy Christmas, Albie,” she said, pouring him a glass, “and – welcome home!”

“Happy Christmas, Mum,” he replied, feeling a nice warm glow spreading inside as he sipped at his glass of cherry brandy, “there really en’t no place like home, is there?”

NEXT: ALBIE and the Swinging ’Sixties! But, surely not in Sheringham of all places?

SOME OF ALBIE’S FAVOURITE WEBSITES A Norfolk Entertainer A Moment in Time Enjoy North Norfolk Enjoy Norwich Flint Holiday Cottages Norfolk Churches Norfolk Dialect Norfolk Village Signs Norwich City Hall and the Lions Picture Norfolk Remember Norfolk Sculthorpe Spyplanes

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