On the day that poor Prince Philip couldn’t even have a wee infection without the whole country knowing about it, we went to a Jubilee fete at the village green.
Well…I say fete, it was more, well, you know the last day of a music festival when everyone wakes up after Greenday played the final headline act? There are gazebo’s scattered about, little druid-like circles of people on the floor sharing a bag of twiglets and drinking flat cider from a can, in the rain, desperately trying to “make something” of the last day and refusing to give up? The eccentric woman with a bobbly headband hugging a bottle of cava? That. That was our fete. With a few bales of hay thrown in the middle of it. And a Punch and Judy slash magician man heckling children over to where he has set up his “show”. Over by the dog turd bin.
“Everyone, everyone! If you DO need to sit down, please DO feel free to use the chairs” came the shrill irritated voice over the tannoy. He said it like he had been gaurding his row of chairs with sinister force, and maybe his wife had just hissed at him “For goddsakes Bernard! People have to sit down!” And that unless we had his permission to do so, if you did sit on the chair, you might have been shot.
As I have one of THOSE faces, magician slash Punch and Judy man comes up to me and starts telling me about how he is giving up the game of Punch and Judy slash magic. He has had enough of the swozzle. He then tells me what happens when you accidently swallow the swozzle. As I stand there listening to him talk about his poo, he suddenly ta daaa produces a balloon rabbit for me out of nowhere, and then slinks away…
My husband knows the drill. This is my patch. I am essentially like Royalty myself, or a gangland mafiosa. I am batting people away like I am swatting flies. Smiling, nodding, stopping to enquire about their families and health. Yet all remain nameless…mysterious entities…their identities kept secret from my husband…
“You don’t remember their names do you?” he asks me
“Nope, not a clue”.
If I am ever stood next to my husband, and you don’t know him to talk to, and I don’t introduce you to him, it is because I have forgotton your name and by not saying to you “Hi Helen/ James/ Laura! This is my husband, Smudge” I am pretending I still do, in fact, know your name. I don’t.
I can not get enough of this Jubilee stuff. I LOVE The Queen and bunting and red, white and blue and hurrah for me because so does my lovely “jazz-hands” son. Here he is! He dressed himself.
Camper than christmas, incredibly excited and with a slight speech impediment (where he can’t say his “fs” properly- they come out as “s’s”) he spent a lot of time yesterday commenting loudly on all the “massive slags” around the village. It was brilliant.
Dotted around the green were gazebos full of people laughing and joking, food being dished out and drinks a flow-ing. These are not places selling food or drink, BE WARNED. These are private parties of people. Do not go up and look at them with fiver in outstretched hand, looking gormless and smiling. If there are children in that gazebo you will look at worst look like a pervert. At best you will look like an idiot.
Luckily, the friend we are with has a smart phone and a smart brain and phones across the green to the local pub. Luckily the smart pub on the end of the smart phone is smart enough to be serving take away beer in plastic cups.
Long live the Queen.