Presumably not THE Penelope Wilton. Unless she has a greater interest in the exploits of Mickey Mouse's dog Pluto than you would think to look at her.

Hey, Honeys, I'm home. The battle royale between me and the French is over, and we've decided to call it a draw. Under the terms of our peace agreement, I am to return to England, and stop eating all their cheese; and they are to buy some proper pillows for their beds, and stop pretending those weird long tubular bolster things will do.

Anyway, this weekend I've been sorting through some old stuff of mine that's been cluttering up my Mum's attic. Amongst it was a book I had when I was a little boy, which was evidently second hand when I was given it, and had the original owner's name in the 'This book belongs to...' space. For some reason, rather than simply cross it out, I appear to have tackled the problem laterally. The inscription now reads:

This book belongs to... Penny Wilton. No. John Finemore.

Pretty strident, coming from someone who can't spell his own name.