A story within a story.
Today I was helping my nearly 84 year old father with proofing his book, the story of his life. He says he never really knew his own father so wanted to make sure none of his children or grandchildren said the same.
It’s full of stories and photos of times gone by. A home on Lake Naivasha as a child. Unspoilt beaches in the south of Spain where now tourists in droves stay in big apartments and hotels and eat food they can have at home. Being sent off to boarding school at 7. A trip in one of the very first coach trips ever to Italy with his very eccentric mother at the end of the Second World War, surviving hairpin bends through the mountains. Fabulous photos of my glam looking mother and my father with his famous grin and sense of fun. Lots of adventures while stationed in Gibraltar, Kenya and Cyprus. Army, family, travel and times and people he will always treasure. Then settling finally in Plymouth, the end of army life and the beginning of a new one. A full life, and wonderful to have so much of it captured there in that book for us all.
A small observation read today I had forgotten hearing him talk about before. He writes about coming into a barn in Kenya when I was about 3, drawn by my squeals of laughter. There I stood, laughing and pointing. And there reared up facing me, very close, a cobra.
He still shudders now at what might have been.