Brigitte Bardot’s Funeral this week prompted fond memories. I am of a generation of men who, when asked about beautiful women, immediately call to mind the likes of Brigitte Bardot and Raquel Welch -the great film stars of our youth.
Though I admired her, and her concern for animal welfare, I thought her politics were ‘wired to the Moon’.
Actually, I once performed as Brigitte Bardot in a class play at school. It would have probably been nineteen sixty-eight. The play was written by our French master, Mr Speight, who we affectionally referred to behind his back as ‘Spidget’. I can’t remember much about it except that Brigitte had been the victim of a robbery. The only line that I recall was yelling “o mes bijoux, mes beaux bijoux”.
Mr Speight died a year ago. And next week I will be attending the funeral of yet another of my former teachers. I often reflect on the profound impression that they made upon me, and of the humanity and passion with which they taught.
In addition to being a brilliant linguist and remarkable teacher, Spidget ran the model railway club and his jacket pockets were always bulging with jars of jam and pickles. He would often take a lucky half-dozen of us out for a ride on a Sunday afternoon in his 1965 Citroen DS, with its hydro-pneumatic suspension.
Oh, that these days might come again.