Every so often, someone will ask something so banal that a silent scream will enter my mouth.
Almost as soon as it gets there, reason takes over again and out of politeness I shake my head, allow it to escape in the form of a harrumph, and produce a high-pitched “I don’t know” that covers the stench of disdain.
This week, someone asked: “What’s your favourite panto?” Then something mysterious happened. Seemingly from nowhere, the words “Dick Whittington” came out like an apparition. Dick Whittington?...
