The Sandbag Times Issue No: 45

THE CHRONICLES OF LITTLE HOPE
up sausage together in Oxford Street!
Seventy six is no age at all, my good man, there’s
many a good tune played on an old trombone. I’ll
wager that in years to come a song will be written
about just that.
Be of good cheer now and perhaps consider taking
a gentle stroll with the ladies of the Little Hope
WI when they sally forth gathering nuts in the
greenwood, I’m sure that they’ll be only too happy
to take it in turns to hold your bag for you should
it become a little heavy.
Letter of the Month
Dear Ms Ffinch,
I seem to have an issue with a lady called Miss
Mayflower, the church verger who seems to
be giving me the eye. Forty years ago, I may
have been flattered, but at the age of 76 I can
hardly tie my shoelaces, never mind do anything
else.
I realise that I am one of the very few men left
in our village with our brave men fighting the
good fight and am happy to play my part in
the war effort, but I do have my limits!
Please advise, what should I do?
Yours desperately
Alfred Cummings
With regards to Miss Mayflower herself, I’d take
her name with a pinch of salt and stop worrying.
She flowered just before the Titanic went down
and has been all talk and no action ever since.
Yours,
Hilda Ffinch,
The Bird With All The Answers
P.S. If the more militant members of the WI do
happen to slip their hands into your pockets and
offer to lighten your load, say “No!” as it won’t be
the odd tanner they’re after and at your age you
need to watch it.
If you’d like Hilda Ffinch, The Bird With All The
Answers to address your own wartime problem,
then pop along to https://www.mrsfoxgoestowar.co.uk/hilda-finch-agony-aunt
to subject your
personal crisis to her (hopefully) sober scrutiny.
Remember to give yourself a suitable wartime
alias! Letters will be answered online and a selection
of them published in next month’s Sandbag
Times.
Dear Mr Cummings,
Oh come, come now, sir! Do get a firm grip on
yourself and endeavour to man up! If the
Reverend Aubrey Fishwick can gamely fend off
the sex starved harpies of Little Hope - admittedly
with help from a bell, Book and candle
in his case - then I’m sure that you can give an
equally good account of yourself!
Are you not, after all (as local legend has it),
the sterling fellow who gave our dear Mr
Churchill a bunk up so that he could get his
leg over during his escape from the Boers in
Pretoria in 1899? Why sir, without your
impressive upward thrust we might even now
be watching Herr Hitler and Lord Halifax
shopping for lederhosen and a bit of spiced-
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