Bertha, abused and incarcerated in the cellar

For some reason I suddenly remembered Bertha today, who has been languishing in the cellar for several years. She has quite a history and deserves better. I bought her nearly 50 years ago for 10 shillings. She lost a bit on a bus in Barnsley, which I replaced with some gas piping (you can just make it out round her backside), and she's featured in some notable concerts. And now, tarnished, neglected, abused, and relegated to a damp cellar. Poor Bertha!

I think I remembered her because we were talking of the importance of names in the writer drop-in the other night, and I recalled how, when I was in utero, my parents provisionally called me Bertha (or so they told me when I was of an age to understand), assuming I would be a girl since they'd already had a boy. No ultrasound scans in those days! Somehow I'm glad I wasn't.