In which I fondly recall how much old folk enjoyed being ridden like a donkey

This is sadly a sight that fewer and fewer people can remember seeing. Old people used to be used as a form of transport in East Anglia right up until the Second World War when large women were used instead (old people being needed as ballast by the Royal Navy).

After the war, the incoming Labour Government shamefully banned the practice, ending a tradition that many experts believe had continued unbroken since the days of yore. Since then there have been many attempts to revive the practice but with varied degrees of success.

Of course gainsayers will tell you that it is cruel, but frankly that is poppycock. Old people want to be ridden. It is in their nature. They enjoy it.

Redwulf's curse

I mentioned the other day that I seldom leave Pity's End and whilst that is true, I travelled a great deal when I was younger. Even now, I will occasionally persuade Franz to accompany me to the Norfolk coast, an area whose melancholy wastes I particularly enjoy.

I would often stay at Ickneld Hall in the old days. It is a magnificent old house looking out over the marshes. I had been a friend of Lord Ickneld and his family for many years. He was a great storyteller and it was he who told me about Redwulf's Curse - the local legend that the burial mound nearby, which is believed to hold the remains of Redwulf, one of the old Anglo-Saxon kings of East Anglia, is protected by a supernatural sentinel.

This legend came to life in a rather striking fashion in the early part of the eighteenth century when all manner of mysterious goings on occurred in and around Low House just along the coast. I mentioned the events to Mr Priestley, and ever ready to 'adopt' a good idea, he produced a rather diverting novel based on them, entitled simply Redwulf's Curse.