MY LITERALLY maiden aunt was a censorious miserly bitch whose hobbies and interests included sly denigrations of her sister-in-law (my mother), sponging, confecting vinegary ketchup which took the enamel off teeth and insisting that her drab house was not in Evesham.
It was in Bengeworth, the part of that town on the left bank of the Avon. She thought Bengeworth had been relegated and took it as a personal affront. The name Kitty sounds cuddly as a cat with a toilet roll. She wasn’t. Her