Here are a couple of photos showing R.B. at his best. One in Venice, which we visited together in 1985 (I think it was) and another beside Stopham green with him carrying an enormous tin bath for the children to use in the garden. It had been hanging on the wall of one of the coach houses at Stopham House for as long as anyone could remember.
A FOOL AFTER FORTY, by R. B.
If a man's still a fool at forty, he must be a fool indeed: if I can't now tell a book from a brick, or discern a flower from a weed At three score years and ten – what further wisdom do I need? ''The plastic bag will always let you down''. The dodo and the dinosaur are aeons out-of-date, – Effete and unadaptable – extinction was their fate, I'm an eighteenth century throwback, with the mind of a child of eight: ''Fools rush in where angels fear to tread''. The bloke who sniffs the roses while on his way to work, Or who lazily reposes when he should be at the kirk, – Mistakenly supposes that his duties he can shirk, ''We are all due for the High Jump'', said Sir Malcolm. If I'm strolling through the fields, do I deserve to be alive? A parasitic passenger who's happened to survive, – The Reaper's got me in his sights, though to dodge
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