Are you all ready for this, because we're going to start crying:
Once upon a time, there was a small me, living in deepest, darkest Lancashire. On car journeys with either my mum or dad we would see an elderly gentleman pushing his wife in a wheelchair up the grassy bits of the sides of dual carriageways, picking up aluminium cans for recyclying. They tied clear plastic sacks to the handlebars to put the cans in somehow.
They never stopped. Out in all weathers. It was very Peter Kay but all good comedy is based in truth.
Well, they had a little book published about local history that went on sale in bookshops round the area in aid of MS and various local charities.
They had a photograph of themselves on the front cover. She was in her wheelchair with a tartan blanket over her knees and he was next to her, looking ar her with the greatest love.
The book wasn't very long. It was all about priest holes and mentions in the Domesday Book, you know the sort of thing. Her condition was hardly talked about.
I think I could still have my copy somewhere but my mum came to stay with me last summer after my dad died and threw out everything, "Too depressing."
I've often thought about them in this Salt Path nonsense.