It seemed to me then, that it would always be this way. That it would always be a surprise to walk out of a party at nine thirty at night and find the sky the colour of butter, That his childish mannerisms and forlorn looks would always delight me. How reckless now, I know, was he who wrote, 'the past is a foreign country.' Perhaps for professional historians, maybe, but for those of us amateurs not protected by the armour of expertise, the past is all too real. The past is a back garden, filled with uncontrollable weeds.