The stings and arrows of a little light Mickey taking

I AM much obliged to reader Mick Harrison, whose letter is date stamped Manchester.

Or, at least, I think I am. He writes via postman Adam at the Old White Bear how much he enjoys my “little columns”, having read them all since the first one.

That “first” was last March 11, before Boris Johnson realised he had a national crisis on his hands. He does now, belatedly.

But I digress. Mick sends a large photograph of a glass etching at Liverpool

Lime Street station, of a man with specs and a moustache. The resemblance to your diarist is not overwhelming, but near enough for a joke, which I don’t mind.

“I thought you might like it,” says Mick. “Or maybe Mrs R can throw darts at it because it will be a long time before you can use them with all of the locals under lock and key.”

Mrs R is not much of a darter, but I was an addict in my student days. Indeed, I once played for money in the Turf Tavern, Nottingham – and won.

My high point was scoring triple twenty, nineteen and eighteen with three successive throws.

Maybe not Eric Bristow or Jocky Wilson, but not bad for an amateur. I learned darting in Yorkshire pubs, on our unique board: no trebles, just narrow doubles, and only a tiny bull’s eye, with no outer ring.

The bristle boards were soaked in a bucket of water overnight to keep them match-fit, which was more than the players who got soaked in something else.

I still have darts and a board. Good for a bit of exercise during lockdown, but my aim is rubbish these days.

Cheers, Mick. But what are the words on the etching?