The Day I Forgot My Legs

	Stephen addresses camera.


Stephen		I don't know if I ever told you about the day
		I forgot my legs. I can't remember which day
		it was: it was one of those ones that happened
		in 1987, I can't remember which exactly, there
		were so many. In particular there were quite a lot
		of Tuesdays then, I remember, so I've a feeling it
		might have been one of those. Anyway, I was on
		my way into work with Sir Peter Thorneycroft, no
		relation, one fresh June morning in early May and
		we took the short cut across the fields. I stooped
		to pick a buttercup, why people leave buttocks
		lying around, I've no idea. The gentlest
		breeze and mildest Camemberts were packed
		in our hamper and all nature seemed to be
		holding its breath. We made good time by taking a
		back way across what was then the main Corpusty
		to Saxmundham Road. I was just remarking to
		Peter how still and peaceful everything was
		when he suddenly agreed with me and said how he
		thought everything was still and peaceful too.
		You know how if you half-close your eyes you can't
		see so well? I'd just discovered that it was equally
		true if you half-opened them. I was pointing this
		out when I suddenly noticed that I'd completely
		forgotten my legs. We had to go back and get them. The
		moment was spoiled and three years later almost to
		the decade, Margaret Thatcher was hounded from
		office. I sometimes muse on what might have
		happened if I had forgotten my ears as well. Never
		go back, ladies and gentlemen. Never go back.