Chronological conjunctions, God’s favourite parlour game

Dates are important to me. I have always been good at learning them, helped by mnemonics taught me by my mother. When I was seven, attending the convent school and in the class of Sister Angela whom I adored, I had a meretricious triumph, my first of a quasi-public nature. An official visit was paid to the school by the Rt. Hon. Oliver Stanley, president of the board of education. He was the first politician I had seen, let alone met. Big, tall, fat, red-faced, genial and courteous, he shook hands during his classroom tour. Sister Angela introduced me as ‘a bright young man’. ‘Bright, is he?’ said the minister. ‘Well, boy, date of the Battle of Hastings?’ ‘1066.’ ‘Right. Battle of Bannockburn?’ ‘1314.’ ‘Right. Battle of Agincourt?’ ‘1415.’ ‘God bless my soul! The boy’s a marvel!’ There was no particular merit in my performance. But Sister Angela said, ‘You did me proud.’