My beloved's memories are even richer — to get any idea of how they lived:
A BBC documentary by none other than the enfant terrible Ken Russell
Bruce and his (equally eccentric) wife Pat threw parties, like the Ghost Party in a London fog, when Bruce laid a trail of toilet paper from the house to the Tube station at the top of the road, and cut out a section of the first floor to do a 'vanishing act' which famously happened inopportunely when he forgot and walked across the carpet ... or the bonfire night when, dressed in his Victorian fireman's jacket, he jumped over the bonfire in the garden, forgetting he'd stuffed his pockets with fireworks, and so become the centre of an impromptu display ... a cowboy part involved knocking down an internal wall so he could fit swinging saloon doors like in the 'pictures' (movies) ...
Pat worked. She was the definition of work. She was still working in her 90s. She started as a junior in a firm of accountants, trained herself and qualified (why does a woman need to qualify?'), went freelance ('But you have a family!') and when she separated from her errant husband, borrowed off banks, friends and neighbours to buy a house for £30k — against every good advice. The house was a double-fronted Victorian monstrosity, and became a home for waifs and strays. It was valued at its peak in excess of £4m, and being in a state of utter disrepair, was sold for £2m after she died.
Bruce and his (equally eccentric) wife Pat threw parties, like the Ghost Party in a London fog, when Bruce laid a trail of toilet paper from the house to the Tube station at the top of the road, and cut out a section of the first floor to do a 'vanishing act' which famously happened inopportunely when he forgot and walked across the carpet ... or the bonfire night when, dressed in his Victorian fireman's jacket, he jumped over the bonfire in the garden, forgetting he'd stuffed his pockets with fireworks, and so become the centre of an impromptu display ... a cowboy part involved knocking down an internal wall so he could fit swinging saloon doors like in the 'pictures' (movies) ...
Pat worked. She was the definition of work. She was still working in her 90s. She started as a junior in a firm of accountants, trained herself and qualified (why does a woman need to qualify?'), went freelance ('But you have a family!') and when she separated from her errant husband, borrowed off banks, friends and neighbours to buy a house for £30k — against every good advice. The house was a double-fronted Victorian monstrosity, and became a home for waifs and strays. It was valued at its peak in excess of £4m, and being in a state of utter disrepair, was sold for £2m after she died.
