I could write a book

When I wrote Diamond Geezers, the history of the first sixty years of Brighton Lions Club, I was pleased to include a few personal reminiscences which, I hope, brought to life some of the events I described. I am convinced that, given the right circumstances, Lions and their wives could come up with enough stories to fill another book. What I really should do is get round to talking to all those people before it is too late. Some of our members have been in the club for over fifty years and they must have some intriguing stories locked away in their minds. They might need a bit of prodding to release the tales, but I shall have to draft a few questions that might prove to be the key and we could just chat while I record the conversations. A daughter of one of the older members has been closely involved with the activities of the club for many years and she remarked the other day that reading my book had reminded her of so many things she had forgotten. Amusing moments or occasions memorable for other reasons ought to be recorded for posterity. Like the one I recounted in Diamond Geezers. Some 50 or so children from socially disadvantaged families were taken to a town along the coast where they were turned loose in an activity centre. One little boy – only about 4' 6'' tall, but 10 years old – claimed he had been pushed into the pond by a duck. After consoling him, one of the Lions suggested he should sit in the sun for a while to dry off. No fear, he said. He was "going back to kill that b..... duck!"

Then there was the time I brought down the hospital ceiling. Until we became so entangled by red tape the Lions attended the Royal Sussex County Hospital two or three Sundays each month to take to the chapel patients who wanted to attend the service but were unable to get there under their own steam. They might be pushed through the corridors in wheelchairs or, on many occasions, in their beds. On one Sunday a patient I was returning to her bed had a drip attached and I was hanging onto the stand from which this was suspended at the same time as I pushed the wheelchair. We had to go up or down a floor so, naturally, I took the lift. When the doors opened I failed to notice that we were on the wrong floor and just pushed the chair out of the lift, complete with the drip on it's six-foot-plus high stand. What I also failed to notice was that there was a false ceiling in this corridor which was lower than the height of the drip stand. When I saw the damage I had caused I retreated into the lift and pressed another button very swiftly.

There is one story which, to my mind, says it all. It was another of those outings for disadvantaged children and on the coach home my wife was sitting next to a girl - again, about 10 or 11 - who shyly confided in her, ‘That's the first holiday I have ever had'.