He was about to make the farewell flick of the wheel on his faithful Zippo, which had seen him through the Normany hedgerows, the Ardennes, Germany, and postwar America, when he heard a key in the front door, and voices.

I smiled at the little smiley face someone had drawn onto the mug in black nikko.

My father found me a nuisance, and put me through the mill, and I can never forget it particularly the evenings.

Which is no different than my chair bodging, in that I can go out into the woodland and do my work without having to be tied in to a village shop situation.