For the people I knew, books were few and stories were everywhere, and how you tell ’em was everything. Even an exchange on a bus had to have a narrative. ‘They’ve no money so they’re having their honeymoon in Morecambe.’ ‘That’s a shame – there’s nowt to do in Morecambe once you’ve had a swim.’ ‘I feel sorry for ’em.’ ‘Aye, but it’s only a week’s honeymoon – I know a woman who spent all her married life in Morecambe.’ Ask not for whom the bell tolls …
