In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg shares tales from her life in rural Dorset . . .
THERE’S a queue when we get up to the hall for the Over Sixties’ outing. And we’ve just minutes to spare before the coach leaves.
I’ve taken the day off, lied about my age and booked seats for Mr Grigg, Mr Loggins, Mrs Bancroft and myself. We’re off to Plymouth for the day.
When I heard that’s where the Over Sixties were heading, I just couldn’t resist going on the trip. You see, I trained as a reporter in this seafaring city nearly 40 years ago, and I’d like to go back.
Mrs Hayworth, who runs the trips, knows I’m not yet of age, but says she’s glad to fill the seats.
So the four of us get on the bus and walk down the aisle, sitting at the back, then settle down for the journey.
“Are you excited?” Mrs Bancroft asks.
I must admit I am. I’ve been back in Plymouth a few times since qualifying as a journalist in 1982, mostly for reunions with some of the people I trained with.
It has been great to meet up with them, especially as nearly all of us are still doing writing of some kind.
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