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Dear J.
I wish that, in these unenergetic latter years, I could call to mind an interesting cheese anecdote. Sadly ennui and lethargy have won their victory over my, now barely remembered, enthusiasm.
One memory did shyly, turtle peeking from undershell, emerge on dairy matters. It is to this which I address the following adumbration; to wit:
I was a boy and so I lived in the house of my parents.
This house was distant, relative to the extent of our small country, from the house of my grandfather. When he came to visit us, he had to make a longish train journey.
I was a big boy now, and was trusted to meet him at the railway station.
I bought a platform ticket, which entitles the bearer to go onto the railway platform. This was necessary to my mind because, if I were not there when my grandfather stepped out of the carriage, he might be lost forever, and me to blame.
But his stepping out is still in the future. I am reminiscing proleptically.
Waiting for his arrival gave me opportunity to survey the marvels provided for passengers and their awaiters.
A milk vending machine was there!
Right there on the platform!
Where anybody, even a young boy, could insert a coin without asking permission.
That milk, of the late nineteen-sixties, was the most delicious treat I ever tasted. Technology of that era extended to refrigeration so it was excellently cool.
If it had occurred to me that, a century later, important people on the electrotubes were interested in cheese, I might have spent another halfpenny and kept a pint for historical experiment.
Yours Faithfully,
J. S.