Yesterday was a bad news day. First, I heard about the genocide and injury to young concertgoers in Manchester; and later, the news about the death of Roger Moore, the actor we all knew as Simon Templar in “The Saint” when I was a child in the sixties.

My brother Bill, who is over from Australia and staying with us at present, had been out with my sister Mary and her family all day so I didn’t know if he’d heard the news.

“Did you hear that Roger Moore is dead?” I asked sadly as he entered the kitchen.

“No, really?” he was surprised, and he paused before continuing. “He’ll be with the other saints now.”

“When he arrives at the Pearly Gates,” my husband Chris chipped in, “he can tell St.Peter that his body is a templar!”

~~~~~~~

Shortly, Bill recounted part of a conversation he’d had with our mum (alias Supergran).

“My brain is really quite good and my memory isn’t too bad,” Mum assured my older brother, “I haven’t got that trouble other old people have – oh… oh… what is it called?”