Raymond Briggs

One of the few gratifying things about old age is the way you acquire new skills. As you lose the ability to do something, you have to invent new ways of doing it.

I have become expert with a litter picker as we are habitually trying to keep the footpaths and bridleways clear of rubbish – such as fag packets, beer cans and endless Cona coffee cups – dropped by lazy, stupid oafs. Do these people chuck down rubbish in their own home, or garden if they’ve got one? Consequently, there are several litter pickers around the house, the shed and the garage.

One of my pet hates is bending down, with wobbly balance and cracking knees, to pick up something from the floor. So now I do it with one swipe of my litter picker. Effortless.

Also, to save getting out of my new electric, tilting, leg-resting armchair, I can alter the heat control on the fire with my litter picker. Then, when I do get out of the chair and can’t stretch to the various switches, I can poke them with it. Now some thoughtless fool must have come in and knocked the stand with the swivelling lamp, so it’s turned my way. It blazes into the corner of my eye; so I swipe the damn thing with my litter picker and send it blazing at the kitchen door. Done!

Then there is the daily task of picking up the piles of fan mail from the front doormat. As usual, the Christmas avalanche starts in early October. Don’t mind if it’s from children, but these imbecilic, so-called collectors – will I sign some First Day Covers? Envelopes with stamps on; nothing whatever to do with me. If it’s Snowman stamps, well, OK. But then some of these envelopes have already been signed by two or three other mini-famous people who have no connection with the stamps either. So what is the point? My litter picker is no help, but I’d like to get the noses of these soppy collectors into its steely jaws.

All this is beginning to sound slightly grumpy – completely out of character. Normally, I am a relaxed, easy-going sort of chap, oozing goodwill to all men, and women, too, nowadays, of course. One must keep up with the fashions of the day.

Now there are even women priests! They’re getting in everywhere. We’ve ended up with a woman prime minister, and they’ve even got one in Germany, of all places. Old Adolf must be having fits in his Hellhole. Goebbels wouldn’t have minded as he was quite a womaniser. Killed himself and his whole family, didn’t he? Probably saw it coming – a Führeress? Doesn’t even sound right.

Then, the day after writing this, I thought Hitler had read the news in his local paper, Hell’s Gazette, and was getting back at me. Woke up from a doze in the middle of the day to find the room in darkness. Quite disturbing. Phoned one or two neighbours; not one answered. All out. Or all dead? Then saw the shadow of the window on the carpet, all in red light.

We all know about it now, but I had to buy one of these common, popular newspapers as it had very good pictures of the day when the world turned orange.

Thank God it wasn’t Hitler’s revenge.