Introduction

Throughout the stories on this blog, Bill describes himself as 'My Friend Harry. This is a writer's conceit, which allows him to refer to himself in the 3rd person.

This is how Bill justifies using the name 'My Friend Harry'.

First, it was Buster. That was when I was very little. Then Buster was eased out by Billie who, in time, gave way to Willie. Then, and lastingly, it was Bill - though Bill was, to a section of the community, and for many years, swept aside by Wep. Only to my doctor, my dentist, the bank manager, the credit card computers, the Army and, on two occasions, the police, has it ever been William.

And all the time - well, for some of the time -I wanted it to be Harry. Longed, yearned for it to be Harry.

Why? Don’t know. I first ached to be Harry when I was in short trousers and wore the cap of St. Chrétienne convent school run by nuns in what is now the Masonic Hall at Gillingham in the county of Kent. I pleaded with the other kids to call me Harry. I told Sister Louise that my name had been changed to Harry. But she, like the chortling kids, just laughed.

When did I stop wanting to be Harry? In my teens - but whenever I met real Harrys I still felt the stab of jealousy. Do I still wish it had been Harry? In my sniveling senility I don’t wish for anything very much except, perhaps, that my poor old back won’t play up too much.

So, having written one book as an experiment and a second after yielding too readily to flattery, I thought I’d give poor old frustrated Harry a bit of a fillip by letting him loose on a third.

The older I get the clearer it seems to me that the inconsequentialities of life - Shakespeare ‘unconsidered trifles' -aren’t inconsequential after all. Seems to me, in fact, most of life’s major events spring from trifles or are inspired by trifles. And not only that. Against logic, the trifles are what remain most firmly fixed in the memory as the wrinkles multiply, the muscles sag, the heart flutters and the lungs gasp. In the hackneyed phrase, they are the spice of life.

So, I thought I’d try to dredge up as many of my life’s trifles as I could, just for fun. And set down those that had the merit of point so that they’d remind me who I was and what I am.

Or, rather, who Harry was and what Harry is. Harry hasn’t had much of a life up to now. A big hand for Harry, please.

Bill Dawson, in his 80’s.