Oh, they were friendly enough folk, but their choice of decor – naked flagstones, whitewash flaking from damply crumbling plaster – left something to be desired; and their home's contents, a morass of mucky jumble, would have shamed the Steptoes.
Of course, all this was a magnet to a small boy, regardless of his mother's embargo on visiting on account of him always bringing a little something home. Their dog, you see, had a gentle nature, sociable disposition ... and fleas.
Amongst the junk was a wind-up gramophone, which generally played 78s of popular ballads and ditties. On one illicit visit, this small boy spotted something rather unusual, a record in a paper sleeve. Naturally, he inquired.
In a scornful whisper the lady of the house answered, "Oh, that's some o' that there classical music."
Mistaking her tone for one of reverence, he asked, in what he imagined was a corresponding tone, "What's it like?"
"Well, it's wun of 'is records, an' we're not s'pposed to touch 'em, tha knaws. Ah'll let thee 'ear a bit on it if tha wants, but, sithee, don't thee go lettin' on to 'im that ah've played it – 'E'd kill us if 'e fahnd aht!"
And, with no small satisfaction at, albeit surreptitiously, defying 'im ('er 'usband), she popped it on.
Dimly penetrating the hissing came a soft sound quite unlike anything the boy had ever heard in his (admittedly somewhat limited) experience. He stood transfixed by the sound of whispering strings, harp and plaintive oboe, although he knew not what these were.
As it finished, he became vaguely aware of a soggily crumbling fragment of unwholesome wholemeal biscuit clutched in his grubby hand. Still spellbound, he absently chewed on the biscuit – a seemingly reckless action that, for today's small boy, might necessitate an urgent course of antibiotics.
Subdued, he departed, unnoticed by Mrs 'Im who, panicking at the prospect of further domestic disharmony, was wrestling with the unfamiliar operation of replacing a record sleeve. He took home his unprecedented experience, the evocative words "Swan Lake" ... and another tiny stowaway.
This itchy last would earn him an immediately painful homecoming. However, a seed had been sown between his ears – relatively stony ground perhaps, but, against all the odds, it would survive and, years later, germinate, grow – and bloom.
Who was he? Need you ask? As to what this's to do with the price of eggs – well, maybe next month I'll tell you.
