In the late Twenties, my aunt and two cousins came for a holiday. Charlie, the elder of the two, took a shine to a local farmer's daughter and after a long-distance courtship decided to get married. A visit had been planned to visit Bradford to finalise the wedding arrangements and I was invited to come along.
The visit was marred by two escapades that ensured my next invite would be a long time coming.
The first concerned the local pigeon population. While sitting on the window ledge a pigeon alighted on the outside ledge but seemed oblivious to me. I saw pigeons as food, so pinching a few crumbs from the kitchen to put on the inside ledge I eased the bottom casement window up a little and the pigeon walked right in. Slamming the window down and catching the bird caused a bit of a kerfuffle. Auntie rushed in and was horrified to see me clutching the poor bird and immediately took it from me and released it. As my potential dinner flew away I was given a monumental dressing down.
The next day, bored silly, I went outside and decided to climb one of the trees. My aunt spotted me level with the first-floor window and threw another wobbly. I had not realised it but I was black from head to toe. My shirt and shorts needed washing and into the bath for me. A town has no place for a country boy.
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