something warm and went off with the trolley, and the conversation lasted about eleven seconds.
Alwyn Creed was four feet away with a newspaper.
He did not say a word about it for five months.
And then he got down on one knee in front of about forty people and said:
“I’m not asking you for a favour. I’ve got a hole in the ground and nobody to put me in it. You’ve got a man in a cupboard and nobody to make you do it. I’m offering you a trade.”
The nine months before the proposal, which I reconstructed afterwards from a notebook he kept and which is the part that should be read out in a training session somewhere.
He wrote it all down. Not in a complaining way — a page a month, in pencil, in a reporter’s notebook from about 1988.
The ninth of January, 2025: he
