This Is Your Life Read Online Free PDF

were to be found in a dump like Seaford.
    â€˜Seaford is not a dump,’ I said defensively an hour later as my brother described his failed search for a semi-tasteful birthday card. We were sitting in the saloon bar of the pub, studying laminated menus with helpful photos of every dish described.
    â€˜It
is
a dump – most of the cards in the shop said “In Deepest Sympathy”. I mean how can you live in a town where people are more likely to die than have a birthday?’
    â€˜Maybe they mean “In deepest sympathy that you live in Seaford”,’ chirped his wife Carol unhelpfully.
    â€˜Dennis Johnson died on his birthday,’ said Dad. ‘Double pneumonia.’
    I knew everything my brother said was true, but I couldn’t help feeling that only I had the right to say it. British commuters endlessly whinge about their public transport system, but that doesn’t mean they want foreign visitors agreeing with them.
    â€˜So what are we doing later on this evening, Jimmy? Carpet bowls or over-60s water confidence classes?’
    â€˜There’s quite a lot for young people to do round here, as well you know’
    â€˜Great. So it’s hanging around the bus shelter giving each other love bites.’
    â€˜And there are some lovely walks as you head out of the town.’
    â€˜Walks? Surely if you were heading out of town you would run?’
    The onslaught was relentless.
    â€˜Well, I like it here,’ I said sulkily. My brother lived in London, and Mum and Dad had followed him there some years back to be near their
only
grandchildren. The reason I felt personally offended by their constant digs about Seaford was that I couldn’t help interpreting them as coded attacks upon me. Substitute ‘where I lived’ for ‘the way I lived’ and the criticism wasn’t so thinly veiled.
    â€˜It’s not all pensioners and bored teenagers you know,’ I continued before casually playing my only trump card. ‘Billy Scrivens lives in Seaford . . .’
    This news prompted more surprise and excitement than I could have hoped for.
    â€˜Really?’ said Nicholas.
    â€˜Billy Scrivens? Lives here?!’ said my sister-in-law.
    â€˜Oh now, he’s very funny,’ said Dad. ‘What’s his programme called?
Gotcha
!’
    â€˜Does he live here all year round?’
    â€˜Well, no, I’m sure he has somewhere in London, but he has a cottage between Seaford and Cuckmere Haven. You often see him in the town or jogging up on the Downs.’
    â€˜Have you ever actually met him then?’
    â€˜Er, yeah, I bumped into him this morning, as a matter of fact.’
    This was true, if a little misleading. I had indeed exchanged a few words with Britain’s highest-paid TV star at around half past eleven that morning. I’d taken a break from my computerand was walking Betty up on the cliffs when I suddenly saw Billy Scrivens coming towards me. He must have been jogging because he was red-faced and dripping with sweat and was now reduced to a sort of lumbering half-run, which petered out completely as he approached. He was clearly on some sort of health kick and stopping jogging certainly seemed the healthiest thing he could have done. He looked scruffier than usual. When he skipped down the steps at the beginning of his TV show he always wore a spangly jacket and his trademark bow tie, but that morning I was disappointed to see that he was allowing his impeccable standards to drop for a jog on the South Downs with his Labrador. But it was still unmistakably Billy Scrivens. His famous face seemed to announce to me ‘Hi there, Jimmy, it’s me!’ and for a split second I had the sensation of bumping into an old friend. I checked myself; I should treat him as I would anyone else, even though I was not just another ordinary member of the public. In fact, I had a direct connection with him that I wanted to share. As an