I never met the man, but do know a story, related by one of the many Brits (it could have been John Roberts, Mike Waterson, or any number of others -- I truly can't remember) who came through Helen Schneyer's house "back in the day." I can't tell the story properly, and don't know the address that comes as the punch line, but here goes.

An acquaintance of the story-teller was looking around a junk shop and came upon a stuffed turtle. Huge thing, it was, but, on a whim, he bought it. It got wrapped in brown paper -- not enough to totally cover it, but enough to let him carry it out of the shop -- and he trotted off down to the bus line. On the bus, a woman said to him, "What's that?"

"My turtle," he answered.

"Oh, what does it eat?" she asked, oblivious of the fact that it was dead and stuffed.

"Slugs."

"Oh," she said, "My garden is full of those. Would you like me to send you some?"

"That would be very kind," he answered.

"What address should I send them to?" asked the kind old soul.

"Ewan MacColl, 50 High St., Soho*" he answered, giving Ewan's real address.


Bob

* I told you I didn't know the real address.