..that’s the most recent addition to the Havku, which has lately gone a bit Hallowe’en; Jane pitching in with ghostly knitted benches and spooky rashers and me batting back with cross-stitched hassocks.
It’s also what I said to a slightly bemused Terry Powell during a radio interview last week. What I meant was, there are so many extraordinary Havant tales. Not knowing the place until now, I’m walking the streets and mentally rerunning the stories I’ve been gathering – from Canute to Her Serene sherry guzzling Highness on Hayling, from the thousands of Spanish Civil War refugee kids playing football and the one armed auntie knitting in her railway carriage caravan, to the tanks nibbling at the kerb, Neville Shute proposing to Flora Twort, Wodehouse maybe taking the vicar of Warblington as the seed of an idea for the betting on the longest sermon wheeze. The place is in a constant state of All Soul’s night, albeit a very jolly one. Or maybe if I’d done the residency in spring, say, everything would have been different. Less spooky.