A respectful birthday missive from our Hong Kong host, Ed.

Dear respected Head of Family,

Of course you are not really 80. And I am not almost 67. The very idea. Ridiculous.

WJWP suggested I might write a mini encomium to mark this April. So, having looked up what that means, here goes with something along those lines.

Selcroft Road: me in a high chair in the dining room looking through the window, you outside about to head off to Whitgift, sticking your tongue out and waggling your fingers in your ears. Perhaps this sets the stage for our future relationship.

You and Richard (I think) had dug a large hole in the back garden and were ordered to fill it in prior to the move to Sanderstead. I thought it an interesting hole (unlike the ones on the beach at Sandsend where I was confined to keep me out of mischief) and sympathized with your disgruntlement.

Nobody was more impressed with your 21^st birthday party than me (bar constructed on the verandah at Weybourne, high jinks till the wee hours, I was allowed a brief appearance in pyjamas and dressing gown) and the stupendous array of presents – suitcases, alarm clocks etc – had me calculating the number of months till 6 June 1980. Sadly, by the time I reached a similar age the “big present” tradition had petered out. Chiz chiz, as Molesworth would say.

An even greater event was your 1969 wedding, a moment of pure and utter joy for me as it meant the moment you moved out I could take over your bedroom: balcony (still there according to StreetView) handy for shooting squirrels, climbable drainpipe, space for my toys and stuff. Had to downsize when we moved to Twyford. Chiz chiz chiz.

Previously: I had long been envious of your very neat handwriting, and asked you to fill out the ID card that was part of a Secret Agent kit I had been given for my ?th birthday. That secret agents shouldn’t really carry ID cards had obviously not occurred to the manufacturers.

You: What shall I put under distinguishing marks?

Me: There’s a mole on my right ear.

You: Why doesn’t it go back in there then?

Still quite a good joke. On similar lines: You, RDP and I were playing cowboys and indians (or similar) in the back garden. Richard and I had captured you by the greenhouse and decided you needed to be shot. You plucked a small blue flower and intoned: “Forget Me Not.”

Google tells me the Sanderstead Congregational Church is now called something else. No matter. Were you involved in some sort of youth group there? I recall going to see a revue: you played a judge (wearing DRP’s half-moon glasses, went to sleep while hearing a case, natch) and a singing Pakistani train conductor who promised to “give you rides for free”. Just as well there were no mobiles at that time to video you. Cultural appropriation, or somesuch drivel.

Final Weybourne snippet: your chore, apart from shoe cleaning, was to mow the lawns, which I would then mess up riding my bike and leaving tyre marks. Sorry. Really.

(As an aside. One Mr “Conifer” Dolder bought Weybourne, as you may recall, then thought he might demolish it and build a mini housing estate. He threw a tantrum when Mr Lowy (who related this tale when I visited in 2024) refused to join in his Charles Clore-ish scheme, declaring YOU OWE IT TO YOUR CHILDREN. Nowt so queer as folk, as Mr Stamforth might say.)

Boarding school, Australia and Things Military intervened in subsequent years. I am trying to recall when you moved to G Dadds and Brook St. Massive office, if memory serves. Fast forward to more recent times: you came to my assistance when I was floundering rather having left the army, and again when I needed help with the divorce proceedings. And 20 years ago you threw a sumptuous supper party post Haxted – sorry not to attend, but I was being savaged by fleas in the 16^th century coaching inn in Ashford that I had rashly booked thinking it would be a romantic honeymoon spot.

Of course, no treatise such as this should lack a paragraph on your sporting prowess. Was your team Old Whitgiftoids or something? I recall you scored one try but only because you were tackled before you ran out of touch. But well done, anyway.

At a very rough parallel, I simply add this photo of 60s singing sensation Tiny Tim, and leave it to you to explain why you chose to attend a Dickens fancy dress party in costume and perform a rendition of his signature Tiptoe Through The Tulipsin his characteristic falsetto. You constructed a cod guitar using one of Ma’s biscuit tins, which I, though not she, thought admirable.

Finally – almost. Your saying at Ma’s 90^th that it was simply “the dress rehearsal for her 100^th” hit just the right note. And your eulogy for Pa enjoyed a similar tenor. We were especially lucky with our parents, I feel. School friends, Old Malt House neighbours and distant relations (eg Ronnie Peters) have all remembered them to me with great affection. I think Pa may have edged you into taking up the profession he would have liked for himself, but you do seem to have prospered greatly in the legal world.

I may be wrong, but I seem to recall Elm Tree Cottage, Bluehouse Lane, Little Hill Court and Holmesdale were all semi-detached. And now you live in that truly gorgeous Our Father Who Art in Farnham farmhouse with your very deliciouschatelaine. What’s more, you have children and grandchildren to enjoy, not least Nick and William who I look forward to reminding about their greying hair in AitchKay.

And we’re all going to live happily ever after. Hooray for birthdays.

Much love from

Ed

Mistake Very Nice Surprise

PS My most trenchant memory of Ruswarp is of Pa, David Owers and myself being attacked by a swarm of bees. Must have been ’67. Anyways, this is a nice photo. Thanks for not chucking me in (I assume).