My dad was a publican and a very good one. He was an ex-wrestler and weighed over 20 stone. His neck was as big as the top of a man's leg. He was a big but very jovial man. I'll tell you a little tale of my dad's pub. Picture an old inn (The Salhouse Bell), over 300 years old, with the wooden beams and features associated with an inn of that age. In the winter time, dad was noted for having wonderful log fires. Anyone coming in on a cold day would not take long to get warm. One day, he had a problem with the fire in the bar, which was smoking quite a bit. He telephoned a chimney sweep who presently arrived and got out all his brushes and equipment and then looked up the chimney. "I can't sweep that. This chimney was built in the days when little boys used to climb up and clean them - it's so wide, my brushes wouldn't touch the sides," he said. So dad said, "Well, if you can't sweep it, I'll show you how to do it!" He then went through to the back room and produced a double-barrelled 12 bore shotgun. He put two cartridges in, shoved the barrels up the chimney and fired them both. Imagine his surprise when he was suddenly covered in thick soot, from head to toe. In fact he looked like a coal miner. There must have been half a ton of soot in the bar, the chimney not having been swept for years. It came down like an avalanche, covering every surface - glasses, bottles and everything in sight! My Mother came through to see what the commotion was all about and was amazed to see this huge pile of soot in the bar and black dust filling every room in the house. Dad was not very popular that day, nor for some considerable time afterwards. Apart from running the inn, dad used to keep geese, chickens and pigs. To feed the pigs, he would boil up swill in a great big copper, mixed with bran. He used to fill two large buckets with the swill, which he then had to carry down the yard to where the pigs were kept. I happened to be there one afternoon when it had been raining. Dad had prepared the swill as usual, in the buckets. He went shuffling off to the top of the garden, past the geese, to the pigsty. I was idly watching from the window and suddenly heard a yell and saw my dad flat on his back in the mud, with both legs up in the air. Being a very heavy man, he had slipped on the mud and goose dropping. I laughed till I cried. Next day, the geese had disappeared to the nearest market. Story laureate Sue Welfare writes: This story is lovely, a really nicely observed slice of rural life! | 
