I had to take a quick trip to the shops this morning to buy biscuits for our Nomination Whist Group. There should have been plenty left over from our last session but, as usual, Mr B and I have been raiding the Biscuit
Tin - we always say we won’t but our resolve is weaker than our Biscuit Yearnings. Hence my shopping trip today.
On my way to the shops I couldn’t
help but notice that People Unknown appeared to have been playing football with a pumpkin. Chunks of said pumpkin were spread over the pavement; seeds had spilled out across my path. I shuddered to think that they miscreants might have taken such liberties
with my pumpkin, sitting on the doorstep, grinning at passers-by and minding its own business. What a terrible end that would have been for my first ever Jack o’ Lantern, carved with my own fair hands.
A car drew up beside me and the driver leant across to ask me if she was anywhere near the Worthing Sixth Form College - she thought she knew exactly where she was going, she mourned, but nothing looked as she remembered it.
That is so like me: when I have to travel somewhere I have never been before, I am meticulous in checking directions but when I have been there before I have totally misplaced faith in my ability to remember the route. So it was with the car driver who hadn’t
realised that the college had moved to a new site since her last visit. She had been completely thrown to find a large housing estate where she had expected to find the college. “I hope I won’t be too late!” she said as she drove off - leaving
me worrying about the accuracy of the directions I had given her. Google Maps I am not.
I wish I could issue directions like my Son-in-Law, husband of the
Middle of the Darling Daughters, who is a London black cab driver and graduate of the Hard School of Knowledge. Ask him the quickest route between any two places in London and he will trot out a string of directions, using phrases such as “comply roundabout”.
I have no idea how you comply with a roundabout but, being the law-abiding type, I’m sure I am always compliant when faced with one.
Unless, of course, it’s
a playground roundabout where, as far as I can tell, nobody complies with any rules. When I was a littl’un, the Roundabout Of Roundabouts was called the Witch’s Hat, a kind of conical roundabout / swing based on a central pole with wooden seats
all around which was so dangerously unpredictable that it was eventually banned from all playgrounds on the grounds of health and safety. I saw a pale imitation in a modern playground recently; it didn’t have the same air of Danger about it.
You are wondering, I am sure, why I appear nostalgic for something dangerous, given that I am a self-confessed Wimp of the First Order. I can only say it’s easy to
express regret for the passing of the Witch’s Hat, knowing that I will never again have to ride on it, clinging on for dear life, trying not to let the side down by screaming.
I showed off my pumpkin to members of the Nomination Whist Group, explaining it was the first time I’d ever attempted the Carving of a Pumpkin. Nobody seemed even half as impressed as I hoped they would be; in fact the discussion
veered off into other “first attempts”, most notably hot air ballooning. Jenny related the tale of a disastrous landing when the basket of the hot air balloon in which she was riding overturned on top of her.
Now there’s a tale worth the telling! Not at all like today’s Blog which is notable only in as far as it has managed to use 670 words in failing to recount anything particularly interesting.
Fortunately, unlike the Witch’s Hat, it’s also perfectly harmless…