I first met the writer Keith Dewhurst when he came to talk to students, including me, at a tech college in Nottingham in the 1960s.
We corresponded intermittently, but my attempts at TV scripts ended in flames; he returned the charred remains of some suggestions I had submitted with a note explaining that we had been the victims of “yer actual vandalism”.
Someone had set fire to the pillar box at the end of the street in Huyton, where I had deposited my master work.
