I have only one Nelson Mandela story.
It is not a good story.
But it is a nice story.
When my eldest child was attending infant school, his class had a stuffed toy called Freddie Frog. Freddie and his diary would go home with each child for a few days and they would write of his adventures.
It was our turn to entertain Freddie and I was flicking through the pages of the diary, wondering what we could do in our fleeting time together. I looked at pictures of Freddie holidaying at Centerparcs, visiting Whipsnade Zoo and with waxwork statues of the Queen and Barack Obama at Madame Tussauds.
I then turned the page and realised that anything I came up with would be utterly pointless.
There was Freddie Frog sat on the knee of Nelson Mandela.
Not a waxwork Nelson Mandela.
The actual Nelson Mandela.
I discovered that the kid’s grandfather had been at university with him and was part of the defence team at his trial.
Of course, now, I think “How lovely that such a great man could take the time to humour the grandchild of an old friend.”
At the time I thought “Nelson Mandela?! Nelson Bloody Mandela?! The only way I’m going to top that is by breaking into the Vatican. And I’m not doing that again.”
Anyway. Nelson Mandela. Dude.