Bulgaria with Noodles

Back in BG, along the street from our apartment in Patriarch Evtimy Dear Markoi, I am writing to you again, hoping that this time you will give me some photos of the memorial service, if you have any. And please, do you have any RTD photos? As you probably know, I put my eulogy onto my blog, as nearly everything I write goes onto my blog sooner or later, and so I wanted to include some photos of Roger. Well, if you have not got any, then that is okay, but please let  me know, one way or another.  The London Water Closet, aka LWC I had a rummage around on the   Sternian   website, but alas I did not find many photos of the   dinosaurus pinguior.  The one of Robin Craig is quite good. A bridge over non-troubled water in Veliko Tarnovo It was strange, being back in the UK after so long and in fact it was the first time ever that I had been back to Lord Wandsworth College (LWC) since my departure, back in 1977 or maybe it was 1978. So muc...

RTD, in his later years The great Mark O'Gorman, aka the One and Only Markoi, has asked me to say a few words about Roger Davies and so, of course, I must obey. For duty, duty must be done The rule applies to everyone Though painful though that duty be To shirk the task, oh fiddledee! A much younger RTD Roger Terence Davies, RTD, the Rather Tubby  Dinosaur or dinosaurus pinguior, was my favourite teacher at Lord Wandsworth College, otherwise known as LWC, or the London Water Closet, as I usually called it when I was a student here. RTD taught Latin and double Latin with him on a Friday was the highlight of my week. Not surprisingly, I went on from GCSE O Level Latin to do Latin A level and then Classics at Oxford. Since graduating, I have been a primary teacher in one or two places around the world. I think that it is no exaggeration for me to say that Roger had more influence upon the course of my life any other person. Caecilius is very much alive! ...

“Oh botheration!” exclaimed Drusilla Kennington-Oval, her gamine face puckering in a tiny moue of vexation. She had come to the end of her novel, Heartsease by Monica Liphook (Olympia Press) and it was time for her to get out of bed and face another mad, jolly, gorgeous day. She widened her slim, artistic fingers (and a thumb) and let the book slip to the cottage floor with an unaccustomed plonk. Immediately, she was out of bed, long limbs flashing, and down her knees mopping up the plonk – a bottle of chea p but agreeable Yugoslav Chablis that she was trying out. Although it was only eight o’clock, already she could hear the sound of her farmer neighbours beginning to stir: the slam of a shooting brake door as one sped off for a round of golf and the cheerful clatter of helicopter blades as another one was whisked away to some boring business meeting in Brussels. Throwing on an old pair of patched jeans, Drusilla flung open the back door and bounded down to the garden fence...