World Teacher’s Day was Sunday, which seems a bit daft. Teachers weren’t even at school so students couldn’t give them an apple.
Yesterday was National Badger Day, Personal Safety Day and World Habitat Day.
This is Knitting Week, Back Care Awareness Week, Wool Week, Egg Week, Humphreys Pyjama Week and London Breakfast Meetings Week, which seems a bit exclusive although I suppose you could, if you wish, go to breakfast in Huddersfield or Leeds or that nice little cafe in Crosland Moor.
By heck, but there’s a lot happening if you’re that way inclined. Thankfully, I’m not. I shall be following no dictats of behaviour. I shall take comfort from the fact that this is another day during which I shall read the morning newspapers, keep in touch with friends, play with my grand-daughter and have lamb chops for tea.
With roast potatoes and mint sauce.
I’m salivating already.
Also, I shall write a few more pages of my latest book, a comedy detective story set in 1959, when the nation had never had it so good.
At least, that’s what Harold Macmillan kept telling us at the time, although there were only two black and white TV stations, Dixon of Dock Green was Saturday night prime time viewing and Torchy the Battery Boy was a children’s hero.
Times were simpler, then. Some things never change, of course.
Politicians tell us we’ll never have it so good 10 or 20 years down the road, and we have just started a new series of Sunday Night at the London Palladium, which originally ran from 1955 until it died of old age and boredom in 1974.
Quite why it’s back, I don’t know.
Perhaps a producer thought they could hitch a hit on the tailcoats of the nostalgic success of Downtown Abbey and Cilla.
So you can forget Personal Safety Day and all the rest. I shall be reliving that cusp of a golden age as the world unknowingly awaited the rock and roll revolution of the Swinging Sixties.
As Ken Dodd says, they can’t touch you for it.
