A Memoirby Bill Barich
The roses in the churchyard on Myddleton Square died in mid-December, after a wicked snowstorm. Worst winter in thirty-one years! That was the cry we heard in the streets. The Indian newsagent fell to a constancy of shivering, and Mr. Lloyd, the grocer, put on a third sweater. At the Fountain, our pub of choice, Christmas decorations went up—strands of gold and silver tinsel across the brass rail of the bar, glittering in the back-bar mirror. The spirit of the season affected the regulars. There were more toasts more often. The lunch hour stretched into two. Our barman, John, got his hair cut. Ted, the butcher, chased his girlfriend around the jukebox with a seltzer bottle.