With his trademark bellow, perfectly rounded vowels and thick mop of unruly grey hair, there was nothing ordinary about George. Minutes into any divergent encounter, once George began to rake an impatient hand through his mane, you could feel his exasperation rising. His impervious demeanour was immune to puncture, and resistance was futile.
In his latter years, he had taken to charging about the streets in a pair of It-Ain’t-Half-Hot-Mum-style khaki army shorts and Ugg boots. And, if I may say, he still had a great set of pins for a man approaching or, possibly by then in his seventies. Not that I notice that sort of thing.
