Elsa

It all started with a sneeze. Hers, not mine. I spotted Elsa sitting on a bench in Market Square but I couldn't make eye contact ... until she sneezed just after I had passed. I turned and said, "bless you," which gave me an introduction and we started to talk. Or, more correctly, she started to talk and I listened. And listened ... and listened!

Elsa is a theatrical story teller. And she has many, many stories to tell. The detail was such that I completely trust their veracity - despite them appearing on the surface to be somewhat improbable. Many of the tales she told were very sad. She's seen more than her fair share of tragedy in her life.

Her husband was a displaced Russian whom she met in a fish and chip shop in Bradford when she was just seventeen (in 1947). She didn't argue when I suggested she was quite a looker back then. Jan was quite besotted with her it seems and after meeting her once spent hours waiting outside for her to finish work with a bunch of red roses in hand. But Elsa said that she didn't care for him too much. Nevertheless, the man persisted and Elsa agreed to go to a party. She said that she loved to dance. It was another world apparently. All Russians. There were bearskins on the wall and traditional music. She loved the music. And there was lots of vodka. She had never drunk vodka before. She said that she must have conceived her first son at that party, although she remembers nothing about it!

After a few months her father found out about her condition and went to find the Russian. Elsa had huge respect for her father, a veteran of the First World War, a brave soldier and a wonderful man it seems. As was the way of things back then, Jan and Elsa were soon married. "Was he good to you," I had to ask. "Oh yes," she replied. She had no complaints. He looked after her very well and gave her five sons. She also had twin girls, but they were lost. Sadly, Jan passed away many years ago. Working in demolition he took a fall from forty feet and broke his whole body. She said he was never the same man again. It wasn't long before he died of a stroke.

For her 84 years Elsa has a terrific vitality about her. I think that's captured here, but she is invaded by a great sadness too. I had some insight into that today. She gave me a kiss on the check when I finally had to bid my leave. I'm sure I'll see her again.

Finally, I am overwhelmed by your response to yesterday's blip. I've always loved Clive James but I must admit that I know him mostly as a wonderfully funny and clever broadcaster. I've read some of his writing but none of his poetry before last night. I must put that right. He is one of the few true polymaths of his generation. Thank you so much for your thoughts and hearts. I hope he knows just how many people have been touched by that extraordinary poem.