Lightfoot, G.

You recall Bilbo Baggins at his farewell party - towards the very beginning of 'Lord of the Rings' if you need a clue - who could not decide if he should refer to the plural of Proudfoot as 'Proudfoots' or as 'Proudfeet'? (His indecision causing as much offence as any choice he might have made, as it turned out.)

Well, I have had a similar moment of name confusion this very day to report.

One had - this is the occasion and the context - to leg it - but one among too many chores - in to town in order to have a new key cut for the side door of the horsebox.

Why so, you reasonably ask? Was not the old key sufficient unto the day?

Well no, as you ask, it wasn't; for the head of it, succumbing to metal fatigue, had snapped off in situ but a few days past and although it had failed in the open position, which was a mercy, one knew at once that the key could not be left unreplaced, not so much because one feared unlawful intrusion but more that the other family with whom the box is shared would not fail to lock the door should they find it not locked, thus locking us out.

You follow I am sure.

So in between doing the horse bed - a different thing entirely from fixing the horse box - the women folk being on a weekend jolly to Burghley's three-day event leaving me with, inter alia, equine cleaning jankers - not to mention dashing to the local DIY emporium in search of the perfect and safe weedkiller for the beweeded front path, pausing only in flight to take condign medication against a raging toothache and to soothe the fevered brow of the 'beloved' sister-in-law (aka 'Countess Dracula'), who having turned up for the duration allegedly to assist the poor Parson promptly fell sick with a heavy cold - thereby adding rather than subtracting to one's already heavy burden of office - there one was legging it in to town as aforementioned in order to have the key replaced.

Where the Proudfoots or 'Feet even in all this you ask once again?

Coming to that.

An ancillary effect of so much dashing had been, not surprisingly, so little eating and drinking - or even plain refueling. (The traditional eight-second pit stop for 'human petrol', which all sadly one has mostly the time for.)

Spotting, therefore, one of those juice bars that so proliferate these days one was about to sprint past, when one had one's Foot/Feet moment of the day.

For, in a highly clever marketing mode, this particular bar had hoisted a sign bearing some obscure song lyrics and offering a free concoction of said juices to any who could guess both singer and song.

Well at once one was on the case - never can resist what must surely be an easy challenge, for one was as familiar with the tune of the thing - even the timbre of the singer - to be able to hum it at once with the very sound of it echoing in the mind.

But could one actually pin it down? Like heck could one! It wasn't him and it wasn't him and it simply couldn't be him one puzzled - and one was, it transpired, quite right on all three counts - but it was Canadian - correct again and it was oh so long ago. True too it turned out.

Finally though one knew one was stumped. The final definitive answer was beyond recall. Buried in the memory for sure and safe keeping, but not for resurrection to active consciousness this side of Dooms Day.

It was less the lapse in intellectual recall that hurt: memory being one of those moveable feasts one more and more finds - you put it down for an instant and it is plain gone, much in the way of car keys or spectacles.

But it was more that one knew that here was a window on a closed yet special past. There had been a time - though clearly one knew not where or when - when this song had been special, some now forgotten past that was clamouring to be remembered. (A bit like the Proudfoots really - happy to be mentioned, but not unreasonably cross that they could not be precisely named.)

The choice then was simple - and what a tribute to astute marketing - either to approach the juicing personnel and say "Look here chaps, I know you're not here for the good of your health, but to make money. Setting though that aside for a moment - a highly personal moment - and not wishing, either, to spoil your impromptu and splendid competition - do you mind telling me what the answer is without me actually buying one of your amazing, nutritious and wondrous cups of fresh pressed fruit?"

Either that, or the more socially astute and commercially sensitive choice of saying rather "OK. I admit I'm foxed. I know I know the answer, but it's not to hand or tongue. Here is my order and my money for a mug of juice and now, while you're at it, could you tell me who it was who sang the song I can sing but not precisely place?"

The latter of course was one's only possible route. And the answer is as in the heading above. 'Twas dear old - by now for sure - Gordon Lightfoot singing 'If You Could Read My Mind' some near thirty-five or so years ago.

Pretty damn decent song as it happens then and now. (And the mug of juice was pretty damn fine too it must be added.)

Wonder if he ever married and had children. Would they be the Lightfoots or the Lightfeets?