There’s no easy way to get from Priscilla Presley in Cardiff to watching your football team lose at Millwall. Logistically it was easy enough, by train and tube, but psychologically it felt like a bit of a stretch, somehow. Anyway, that was my Saturday. Funny old life. It just felt improbable that a woman who was once married to Elvis could be in the same building as me. But there she was, at BBC Wales, 80 now, small but strong, and I was shaking her hand and burbling heaven knows what old nonsense.
I remember exactly where I was when I heard Elvis had died. I was 10 years old, in the back of my mum’s car, as she waited to get the fanbelt replaced. I’m not sure I’d even heard of Elvis, and I don’t think my mum had mentioned his name before or since, but I recall being in no doubt that something momentous had happened. I had the urge to tell Priscilla all this but that would have been ludicrous, so I didn’t.
