Sometimes it seemed as though light flooded the dusty recesses of his brain, and memories began to spew like flour from a mill-wheel.
He’d lived through two world wars, coronations, a moon-landing and the unleashing of science’s most diabolical creation, yet we rolled our eyes, thumbed our phones and stared into our screens, oblivious.
And before we knew, it was too late to listen.
So I’m writing this story for my grandchildren. Hopefully, by the time they want to know this, they’ll still be at liberty to read it.
I start to type…
“He said he’d make America great again…”
This photo was taken inside the watermill at Sacrewell Farm near Peterborough. Built in 1755, it remained a working mill until 1965. Thanks to Rochelle for using it this week, and for leading the Friday Fictioneers into 2017 in her inimitable way.