Under and around the lych gate, as I trotted to Church this morning, a generous scattering of confetti. But not the usual hearts and horse-shoes, oh no! Rocking horses that's what. In shades of delicate pink, blue and yellow.
I slip into
the pew second from the back, where Norma is already beckoning me to join her. Dorothy and Ian, in the pew in front, clearly expected me to join them as usual, but if I had, then Norma would have been sitting on her own with nobody to discuss the merits or
otherwise of this week's hymns. We all - Norma, Dorothy, Ian and I - like hymns of a rousing nature, but, failing that, we like ones with tunes that we know, even if with different, strangely modern words.
Norma asks, had I noticed the rocking
horse confetti? This is what I particularly love about Norma: she has the same inquiring nature as Yours Truly. I say, indeed, I had taken note of it. Could it have been, I wonder aloud, a combined Wedding and Christening? Norma says she had the self-same
thought but had checked the theory out with One Who Would Know and apparently this wasn't the case. I think about asking who One Who Would Know might be (on the grounds that thus information might just be useful one day) but the choir is warming up for the
first hymn so there isn't time.
Norma has to hurry away at the end of the service to attend to "My Boy". As in her boy, not my boy, you understand. Mr B, aka My Boy, knows I won't be able to resist staying behind for a coffee and a biscuit to
set me up for the long walk home, so he won't be expecting me until 11.30 a.m. at the earliest. I grab a mug of coffee and a Nice biscuit, despite the fact that Nice are one of the most Boring of Biscuits, only beaten into first place in the Boring Stakes
by Malted Milk. You know, the ones with a cow on the front. It's only the cow, to be honest, which redeems them in my humble, biscuit-dunking opinion.
We find ourselves talking about funerals. It didn't start out that way - we were talking about
Harvest Festival which was last Sunday. I missed it because I was away with the Darling Daughters, watching Hazel Bagel in the Mayor of Basingstoke's Variety Show and enjoying the a Mayhem created by my Rascal and The Twinkles. How the conversation segued
seemingly effortlessly from Harvest loaves into funeral eulogies I still don't know.
Neither Dorothy nor Ian have noticed the rocking horse confetti so they are no help at all in solving what I have turned into a mystery. Mr B and I were showered
with confetti (though not of the Rocking Horse Variety) at our recent Golden Wedding. There is a fabulous photograph of us timidly approaching the lych gate where our family and friends are gathered. Our great-nephew Jay is in pole position, an expression
of complete glee on his expectant face as we approach the Confetti Zone. I hadn't even thought about confetti but it certainly added to the feeling of getting married all over again - to the same fella, fifty years on.
I walk home wondering about
the rocking horse bride and groom. I hope their marriage will be long and happy, with not too many hurdles along the way. I trust that they will ride alongside each other companionably for years to come.
May their passage through life not be too,