'Yew know yer own wishes best, sir, o' coorse. But some folk loike t' chewse their last resting place while they can, yer know. That'd be noice like, yer know, to rest there along o' yer dear woife and' — looking at my sister and me — 'see how noice that'd be for yer daughters to hev their father and mother booth t'gither.' He laid his hand on one of those box-like tombs and began to play with the lid, lifting it an inch or two and closing it again, up and down, as he tried to persuade father to come and stay in his cemetery for good. I looked at my sister and saw that she was having difficulty with her facial expression. The name on the tomb was "Henrietta Caroline'. We walked away, still trying to conceal our mirth. The cause of it was that the name recalled a nursery rhyme we had known as children: "Henrietta Caroline dipped her head in turpentine." Soon, with more or less composed features, we returned to hear our father say: 'Well, thanks very much. I don't feel like being buried anywhere just now. When I do I'll let you know.' * * * THE THOUGHTFUL RODENT The vicarage gardener had set a trap for a rat, which was preying on the chicken's food and he reported success. 'Oh, poor thing!' said the vicar's wife. Is it dead?' 'Yes, mum. I hit it on the hid.' 'Oh, didn't it look frightened when you approached it?' 'Well, mum, that looked kinder thoughtful.' * * * FUST TO BE LARST In a Norfolk village some harvesters had had a hot dinner brought to them in the field — all except one old gentleman. Although he lived as near to the field as anyone his wife never seemed to arrive on time. This annoyed him and he began to grumble and at last he said: 'Them as live nighest are allus the fust to be larst.' * * * THE SURE CURE At the local market, Tom saw his friend Ernest approaching, hands deep in his trousers pockets and a worried expression on his face. 'Mornin' Arnie. Wa's wrong o' you?' 'Wa mornin' Tom, bor, Oi was a-thinken o' moi owd cow what got the colic. Oi reckon Oi shall lose har.' 'Oi had a cow with colic week afore last,' said Tom by way of comfort. 'What did yew dew for har?' asked Ernest. 'Whoi,' said Tom, 'Oi give har a pint o' warm tarpentoine.' Ernest went home, called at the ironmonger's to get a pint of turpentine and treated his cow according to Tom's instructions — and had to call in Skinner, the horse-slaughterer, next morning to take his dead cow away. Puzzled, he made up his mind to check on Tom's cure and next time they met his first words were: 'Tom, bor, what did yew say yew give yar owd cow when that had colic ?' 'Wa, tarpentoine, Arnie, a pint o' warm tarpentoine.' 'Tha's what Oi thought yew said. Oi give moi owd cow some and that doid,' said Arnie, scratching his head. 'So did moine,' said Tom! * * * AFTERNOON TEA The new minister called upon one of his poorest parishioners, an old lady living in a small cottage, who invited him to have a cup of tea. The minister eyed the dirty cloth, half-empty milk bottle with a fly floating in it and the dirty cup and saucer. He tried to excuse himself but the old lady insisted. He watched her pour out the tea and saw the fly plump into the cup with the milk. He decided that the only way he could drink the tea at all would be to use the other side of the cup. 'Well I never!' remarked the old lady and when the minister asked what was remarkable: 'I have been watching you drinking your tea,' she said, 'an' noticed you are left-handed, just like me.' * * * THE MAN WHO LOST HIS TICKET Owd Garge, who travelled regularly between Norwich and Newmarket during the racing season, was looked upon as 'good for a bit of a joke' by many of his fellow-travellers. On one occasion Garge was sleeping peacefully in a corner with his ticket sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. One of his cronies slipped the ticket gently from the pocket without waking him. Half an hour later: 'Come on Garge! Wake up! They collect tickets at the next stop.' Poor old George, still half asleep, felt in all his pockets and over his face crept a look of deep concern. 'Oi a-lorst me ticket,' he said, addressing the carriage as a whole. 'What am a a-goan to du.' 'Yew'd better git under the seat,' said the other travellers almost in unison. With much cursing, puffing and blowing, George managed to squeeze under the seat where he remained, half suffocated by dust and with a toffee-paper sticking firmly to his right ear, until the train stopped. 'Tickets please!' and the collector was at the door. The man nearest handed him the tickets. The collector looked at them and scratched his head, There were five tickets and only four passengers. 'Where's the other one?' he asked. The man by the window pointed under the seat. 'There's the owd fule,' he said. 'He thinks he's lorst his ticket.' * * * On another similar journey a man sat in a corner of the carriage fast asleep. His ticket was firmly gripped between his teeth and a gentle, rhythmic snore floated across the air. At the stop before Newmarket: 'Tickets please!' called the collector.
All the occupants of the carriage gave up their tickets except the man in the corner. He woke with a start and began to feel in one pocket after another then slowly shook his head. After watching impatiently for a time the collector snatched the ticket from the man's mouth and slammed the door. A parson was sitting opposite and had been watching the incident with amused interest. He tapped our friend on the knee and said: 'Surely you knew it was there?' 'Yis,' was the reply. 'Oi wus suckin' yisterday's date off!'
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Boy Albie
Norfolk born and bred. Archives
August 2020
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