Torquay trauma

When I got back from Pamplona I hadn’t slept in a bed or washed my hair for a week. There was a red stain around my neck where my sweat had mixed with the dye in my St Fermin neckerchief. I was badly sunburned. There was a suppurating graze on my shoulder and a cold sore on my lip. Also, near the end of the feria I’d been robbed of all my money and credit cards by two, or it might have been one, very small women and I was destitute as well as dirty. Imagine how my heart leapt, then, when I walked in the door and was told that while I was away Uncle Jack had been complaining loudly about pains in his chest and was in hospital for ‘tests’.

I’ve not inherited a thing from anybody so far. Not a sausage. But Uncle Jack is 93 and worth, we reckon, about a mil and a half before inheritance tax.