The Boys Who Did It

Walking wounded today – our foster cat, the snow-white FiFi, is on heat and yowled at regular intervals all night and all the previous night. Might be hard to find anyone to take her at the moment, but HH might chuck us both out on our ears if I can’t find her another home.
Only left the house for physio today, and bought an iced fruit loaf on the way home to console me for my heavy head. I consumed a good chunk of it while slumped on the sofa watching the Winter Olympics – wish I had seen more. Just before I fell into bed, I remembered I didn’t have a blip, so grabbed this photo of my father (middle front) and his team at a Liverpool newspaper. He must have been there a very long time ago, possibly even in the late 1920s, as he had 25 years at the Daily Telegraph after that, and for as long as I knew him, he was at Punch magazine. Never on the journalistic side, that was my grandmother and great-grandfather’s line, he was an advertising man.