Sunday, 11 June 2017

Not fair...

I headed over to Marlow yesterday morning for the normal Saturday breakfast.  It was a small gathering as the Mother, Miss R and Mrs Jangles had all had better offers (not difficult when you look at the fare on offer at our venue of choice).  So it was just me, my dad and his partner, putting the world to rights over a couple of crapuccinos (this is not a typo in case you're wondering.  The coffees are really that bad).  Unfortunately, I made the schoolgirl error of bringing up the subject of the election, which gave my dad free rein as to 'what he'd do if he was in power' for at least half an hour.  Needless to say this involved moving anyone who wasn't law abiding to somewhere like Alcatraz, where they would basically be allowed to do what they liked within the island's confines. 

The only location which I could come up with was the Isle of Man.  I went there once and it rained all day which I understand is a common thing throughout the year, so maybe the inhabitants would be quite keen to give up their soggy island to the ne'er-do-wells of this country.  Not too sure where they'd choose to live though.  And what about the TT race?  I can't imagine that being held around the streets of London, can you?  Or perhaps we let the TT race continue, and give the riders points for any law breaker which they manage to wipe out.  A bit like Pac Man...

So anyway, back to Marlow.  It's the Regatta this weekend, with a fun fair, stripy blazers and pretty frocks.  The only thing missing are the boats which were evicted several years ago, really removing any need to dress up and head for the river.  But you know what us Brits are like... Traditions have to be kept to hand down to the next generation, even if that tradition is just a lukewarm Pimms regurgitated on the grass after three consecutive rides on the Waltzer.  I'm speaking from experience here. 

The fair was a massive event in my mid to late teens, and I can remember so clearly the misery on a Sunday, when the fair left town.  It all looked so glamorous with the loud music, candy floss machine and the rides which divested you of your loose change (and stomach contents on occasions).  Miss R and I used to walk up and down the path between the rides, sashaying in our new Miss Selfridge dresses and shivering, because wearing a cardigan was not cool. Our stilettos would sink in the grass, and there would be oil smudges up the back of our legs from the dodgems.

Of course, you reach an age when all you see are the out of date confectionery, the deathtrap rides, and a rather fat lady wearing a too small push up bra which gives her the appearance of one big bosom in the middle of her chest. This lady is usually holding either a gun or several darts, so it's never a good idea to give eye contact.  The glamour is gone, only to be replaced by flat shoes, a money belt and a fold up waterproof, just in case.  

You also know (and this advice is always imparted to your children) never to go on the rides on the first night when they are half price.  I always had a vision of Waltzer Wayne alternately looking at his newly erected ride and his upturned palm, in which would be two screws and a bolt.

Life lessons my friends.  Life lessons....


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