Margrave of the Marches
The only sad thing about my sixty-fifth birthday is that there was no-one there, apart from members of my own family, that I knew before I was about twenty-eight. The only person with whom I'm still in touch from my days at Woodlands, Sparrow Harrison (qv), was, he told me, taking care of security at a flower show in Denbigh - those North Wales flower shows can get a bit rough apparently - and I'm not in touch with anyone who was at Shrewsbury with me, nor indeed with anyone from either of my two years as a soldier of the Queen or the seven years I spent in the United States.