Dead Teds.

It’s all been a bit bonkers, really. I’m still in Hay, but it has been a peculiar few days. Things are a little fuzzy, it must be faced.

I woke up this morning on the floor of a ruined caravan which, upon further investigation, turned out not to be in Hay at all, but high up in the Black Mountains, in Capel Y Ffin. How I came to be there, and how I came to have soiled my undergarments quite so severely, I cannot now say for sure. A sheep farmer was kind enough to give me a lift down into town in the back of his Land Rover, and dear old Anne Robinson was kind enough to let me clean up in her room at The Swan.

One bright spot of my lost few days is that I seem to have written a poem! I found it written on a piece of lavatory paper stuck to my shoe when I was disrobing in Anne’s en-suite, and it’s certainly in my handwriting, but because of the nature of its composition, (ie, I have no idea when I wrote it or how it came to be stuck to my shoe) I’ve decided to file it under ‘Found’ poems, of which I have a great many. Here it is…

Dead Teds.

Poor old Ted was 68 when he died.

Ted Heath (out of Ted Heath and his Orchestra) was 67,

Whilst Ted Heath was 89.

An average of 74.66666667 years.

How cruel averages are! How cruel!

I wish we’d had another 6.66666667 years of Ted’s poems:

Lots more stuff about pike, and crows.

Or 7.66666667 years of Ted Heath’s smooth yet muscular Big Band arrangements,

Rather than 14.33333333 extra years of Ted Heath;

Even though we would have missed his service

As Father of the House.

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