I am on a Mission.
I don’t know if I will be successful, in fact experience tells me I will probably fail miserably,
as I have in years past. But you know what they say about hope springing eternal and all that...
Let me explain. Mr B was born a Man of Kent. This is not the same
(he will have you know) as a Kentish Man. The distinction, as I understand it, is something to do with on which side of the River Medway a person was born. However, as regular readers know, geography has never been my strong suit and, even though I did scrape
a pretty basic pass at O Level, I can’t remember the banks of the River Medway coming up in any of my studies. When I read today’s Blog to Mr B (I always read him my daily Random Ramblings just in case I have taken his name in vain) he will doubtless
embark on an extremely long explanation but by that time (you will be relieved to hear) it will be too late.
As a Man of Kent (I do wonder whether there are Women
of Kent or Kentish Women - I mean there must be, mustn’t there?) Mr B has many happy memories of childhood pleasures, like scrumping for apples and eating naps. Yes, that’s right - naps. Naps is short for Napoleon cherries and, despite their name,
they are Kentish born and bred. Like Mr B but smaller, rounder and more yellowy in colour.
Every year, as we approach cherry season, Mr B starts hankering
after naps. He reminds me of the truly splendid summer’s afternoon when, on the way back from a sun-kissed day on the beach at St Mary’s Bay, we stopped at a verge-side stall and bought up all the naps the stall-holder had left. Our Foursome, squashed
in the back seat (these were the days before seat belts, car seats and other safety considerations) ate cherries while singing at the tops of their voices until, one after another, the voices fell silent as all four fell asleep, worn out from swimming, sand-castle
building and strenuous games of beach cricket. Mr B and I finished off the cherries and congratulated ourselves on one of those idyllic family days we would always remember. Not only on account of the cherries.
This afternoon I took a trip on the bus to the Goring Road shops so that I could post off a parcel at the Post Office. On a sudden impulse, I called into the recently opened Sussex Produce Company shop to ask them if there
was any chance they might have naps for sale, come the cherry season.
I know what you are thinking - the shop is called the Sussex Produce Company. I always commend
shops for telling it like it is (it’s my perennial argument with Boots, which sells more or less everything except boots) so you might have reckoned I would think twice before dancing in to the shop and asking after Kentish cherries.
The shop assistant was far too polite to point this out to me. She had never heard of naps, she said, but she was quite prepared to make enquiries on my behalf if I would
like to call in another day? So that wasn’t a no, then. More a maybe?
I hasten back to tell Mr B about my endeavours on his behalf. He says he isn’t
going to hold his breath. I think this is probably a good thing, on health grounds if nothing else. I do feel perhaps he might be a little more appreciative of my efforts but I expect he doesn’t want to set himself up for disappointment.
Whatever, I am on a Mission. Mission Impossible? Surely not...