It was just the ticket.
Or, to be strictly accurate (and I do strive for accuracy where the Daily Blog is concerned though
inevitably an error creeps in every so often when I have to rely on my readers to put me right) it was all about the tickets. In the plural. Very much so, in fact.
think I had better rewind a few days to Saturday afternoon when I accompanied the (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys and their parents to Worthing sea-front where we had promised the boys a visit to the Amusement Arcade on the pier. Mr B had equipped the boys
with a pound apiece, to be changed into two pence pieces and fed into various slot machines until such a time as the money ran out. Which, in my experience, it certainly would sooner or, hopefully, later.
Young James, the middle of the boys, had drawn the short straw, joining me in my car for the five minute drive to the sea-front. Poor lad, he wasn’t to know when he volunteered to accompany me that I would be parking
so far away, necessitating a long walk to the pier. Bless him, he didn’t complain, listening to me prattling away about the number of pop-up refreshment bars which had made an appearance along the prom over the last several months and offering sensible
responses to my many questions about his Life and Times since I saw him last.
So to the Amusement Arcade. As expected, nobody actually made any money. The
five pound notes teetering on the very edge of the bottom shelf of every Roll a Penny slot machine all stubbornly stayed exactly where they were, however many two pence pieces came rolling their way. Young Morgan, however, had found a slot machine which issued
tickets - dozens and dozens of them. Every one a winner, or so my grandson believed.
I didn’t actually see what happened next as I had to leave the
happy scene to get back to Mr B - but when the family returned home Morgan was still clutching a string of tickets. No matter how many convincing arguments we waged about the paltry nature of the prizes on offer, he was determined to return the following day
to claim what was his rightful bounty.
We thought he might have forgotten by the next morning but, no, not he. If anything, having slept on it, he was even
more determined. His dad suggested maybe I could offer him a pound for his tickets. Morgan eyed me speculatively as I made this generous offer. “Five pounds!” he countered. When I reported this encounter to his father, My Boy was impressed with
his son’s negotiating skills. Like father, like son he commented.
There was nothing for it but to split up - Morgan and his parents returned to the Amusement
Arcade while Sam and James joined me on a sea-front walk. Poor lads, they doubtless must have felt they got the raw end of the deal but they didn’t let on. We would have to be prepared, I told them, to comfort their little brother when he joined us,
disappointed as he would surely be with the pay-off from his tickets.
Except he wasn’t. It’s true the string of tickets only earned him a very small
stress ball but while in the Arcade he had tried his luck on another machine - and struck gold. Have you ever taken a turn on that game where you have to operate a small crane, pick up a toy of your choice, then somehow manoeuvre it into a bin from which you
can collect it? Except you can’t, can you? I mean, nobody ever wins at that game, now do they?
Oh, yes, they do! For here was Morgan, triumphantly holding
aloft a Baby Yoda character, his determination to revisit the Amusement Arcade totally justified. He had made two unsuccessful attempts, he explained, while he assessed the situation and worked out his strategy for success - then it was third time lucky. Except
that Young Morgan, of course, didn’t attribute his success to luck but to sheer skill. It was difficult to argue with that, to be honest.
One way or another,
it was Just The Ticket.