Having gone to a grammar school I know letters and stuff. Sometimes I gets irritable vowel syndrome. Actually folk, 1954 and living, foreign and domestic is overrepresented in my record collection. Which is where I prefer it, filed in a cover. Not hey nonny nonnying in close proximity while I think up excuses to be somewhere, anywhere else.
Fireside singalongs and story telling have been prematurely consigned to the bin, they still happen. The only telly in our house is the eldest son's and he's learning to give it up and listen to blues, hymns, gospel, northern soul, funk. Like most country boys his folk is electric rock but then he's ten and doesn't know any better. I also repeat the lies my mother taught me and still put coal on the fire. Oh yes, we're proper folkie, us. It didn't die on The Somme.