My late mid-life crisis continues. Freshly coiffured, and having just left the salubrious premises of my tonsorial artiste near Derby Road, I was strolling along the Felixstowe Road in the direction of Sainsbury's on Wednesday. Passing by the traffic lights at St Augustine's I saw that I was being clocked by four young lads in a little red Peugeot. There were no other pedestrians around, so when I had passed about twenty yards beyond them and heard repeated shouts, to accompanying laughter, of 'Hey, Harold!', I decided not to look back, fearing that to do so would encourage even louder guffaws. It didn't take me long to work out that the only Harold who would be familiar to such youths would be Harold Bishop, formerly of Neighbours fame; a bumbling, pompous chap with a paunch. Not me, surely? Harumph!
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