I MEAN THIS AS NO SLIGHT on my great uncle Robert but I’ve always found my old aunt’s taste in men to be a little wanting.
When I was a small boy, I would stay with her most summers. During the day we’d groom the pony that lived in the garage and in the evenings — her with a glass of sherry and me with a hot Ribena — we’d sit down in front of the telly. Alan Titchmarsh, she told me twice, could mow her lawn any time he liked, and on Saturdays she always showed great interest in Matthew Kelly himself and none in whichever dinner lady it was
