|Ron above, RR below, many years ago|
Ron lives up North and had just attended a funeral service at Hereford Cathedral. I'd picked him up in the car and we were off to a rural pub.
A long-time, tenor-voice chorister, and still influenced by the cathedral's music, Ron burst into Jerusalem along the Belmont Road. I joined him once he'd lowered the pitch. We knew each other's habits having started out in journalism in the early fifties with the same newspaper group in Bradford.
Jerusalem despatched, Ron now switched to a black-humoured rock-climbing song based on the tune of Carry Me Back To Green Green Pastures. He and I had both attended Outward Bound Mountain School and had subsequently climbed together. So I sang along too.
We reached the final verse:
Lay down my head towards old Gimmer,
My feet towards Bowfell,
A chunk of granite for my headstone,
An ice-axe to sound my knell.
I winced at the misplaced stress in those last two lines. Rubbishy verse.
Tectonic plates shifted in my mind. I turned to Ron: "Didn't I write that song?" He nodded.
I'd completely forgotten. Was glad I had.