We drove from Manchester Airport, I’m arriving unannounced. The driver of the taxi, Ronald Jones, kept up a running commentary and answered my queries to the obvious changes.

The first thing that hit me since I was here 27 years ago was the cleaner atmosphere.

And the people!—no holler cheeks and grey complexions of the thirties. The twisting streets teemed with traffic and education reigns supreme. Kids are being educated daft, same as in Canada.

The dialect was strange to my ear but after a couple of days I’d fallen back into the vernacular. Dialect, as far as I’m concerned, is an heritage. (There is a Prince Edward County dialect that our teachers are trying to eradicate. It should be preserved.)

This weekend I spent up at London with an old Air Force ’Oppo who was with me at Picton. His name, George Butcher and wife Georgia. He calls her Sprog—recruit in RAF. They live at Hounslow, Middlesex in the flight path off Heathrow Airport. Butch met me at Euston. He has a terrific memory. We sat sipping Scotch and rehashing 31 B & GS and we were together about 5 years. Got to bed in the early morning. We made a trip to Uxbridge Airforce Camp, our first training depot. Butch’s wife Georgia drove, cussing out other drivers in broad Cockney. Yew Bledddy Fules, etc. She was marvellous cook. I talked to reunion chief Bert Howes on the phone for 20 minutes about Picton. He wants to be remembered to his acquaintances in Picton.

Must tell you about Butch’s wife. She got sick of cutting front lawn and trimming Privet hedge so hired contractor, cut down hedge, built a wall and concreted the lawn. “W’ot a bleddy relief,” said Georgia.